


A Change of Heart

by BlueMonkey, ThornyHedge



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit RPF
Genre: Art, Character Death, Dream Sex, Love/Hate, M/M, Major Illness, Medical Procedures, Organ Transplantation, True Love, real sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-04 05:01:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 27
Words: 130,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2953298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueMonkey/pseuds/BlueMonkey, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThornyHedge/pseuds/ThornyHedge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean O'Gorman and Richard Armitage have a fairytale romance -- a fairytale life. That is, until their friend Aidan gets sick and everything changes.</p><p> </p><p>Warning: someone is going to die in this fic. It is a major character.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Two Princes

Once upon a time, there were two princes who were very much in love.

It may seem odd to begin a story set in modern-day London with "once upon a time," but if you knew these two men, and you were telling their story, you'd begin it that way too.

Now, where was I? Oh yes, two princes, in love. They were the happiest people in the world.

My name is Martin Freeman. The two princes were friends of mine. There are few more qualified to tell their tale, as I was there for most of it.

Richard Armitage was tall and handsome. He had ebony hair, fair skin and eyes as blue as an icy lake. When those eyes focused on you, it was possible to believe that you were the only other person alive. Richard was a professor at King's College; he taught classical literature and composition. His students adored him. He was shy, but not unapproachable; he came to life when lecturing about Shakespeare and Keats. In fact, he had never had a personality conflict with a single student during his first three years of teaching—until he met Dean.

Dean O'Gorman had found success as a painter in his youth. The prestigious art program at the college had sought him out after he'd sold out a show at the Barbican Gallery during his final year of high school. Dean hadn't planned on attending university at all, but when offered a full scholarship and free housing, it was too good an offer to pass up. Compact and cocky, Dean had surfer-boy good looks and wore his curly blond hair long and unruly. He loathed literature, and signed up for Richard's class during his senior year only because it was required.

Dean probably wouldn't have bothered doing any of the reading if Richard hadn't seemed so passionate about it. Macbeth flowed like honey from Richard's tongue. Dean liked things that were beautiful, and he couldn't help but admire Richard's love of the written word. Their in-class discussions were heated, drawn out and often quite irrelevant.

It wasn't long before they became friends. It was an even shorter time before they became lovers.

Moving in together was tumultuous. They needed a place with enough room for Dean to have a studio, but Richard insisted on a full library, since he was an avid collector of rare and antique books. They needn't have allowed it to be such a hassle. Dean's success had earned him enough money that they could live anywhere they wanted. And so they wound up in a posh, four-bedroom townhouse near the university. One bedroom became Richard's library and study, and another Dean's studio space.

As years passed, they only grew closer. They were one of those couples who'd drive you mad with their impromptu and passionate displays of affection. Richard would put on one of his beloved Billie Holiday records while preparing for a dinner party. Friends would be sitting in the living room, wine and beer in hand, and he'd come from the kitchen in a garish blue apron, pull Dean from his seat by the fire and they'd dance—the sort of dance that readily telegraphed their love. Dean would blush and protest initially, but it didn't take long for his body to meld into Richard's and they'd dance as if they were home alone and it was a prelude to a night of lovemaking.

It made you want to kill them. 

It made you want to _be_ them. 

Even if you were in a relationship, even a long term one, Dean and Richard were always the couple we aspired to be.

Fifteen years passed in the blink of an eye, as it does when you're in love and money isn't a worry. Theirs truly was a charmed life, and our circle of friends had front row seats. Dean's art matured, but retained the genius that drew him patrons and admirers. Richard was in the middle of writing his fourth novel and they were pondering moving to a bigger place.

The fairy tale took a dark turn when our friend Aidan got sick. 

That is when the love story truly begins.


	2. No Bravado and No Theatrics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four friends are out on the town. One of them collapses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, everyone! Blue's already hit midnight... but Thorny still has six hours to go! Here's the first full chapter of our new tale to keep those maudlin thoughts away.

"What are you doing?"

Aidan looked up from his phone. "Uh? Oh, email from work." He grinned apologetically, nudged his cup of macchiato to test the heat, and placed his free hand against the ceramic to warm up. "Sorry. Won't be long. They're," he gestured something that was impossible to make out, "asking me to check something when I'm home. You know how it gets. I swear, I'm just looking for the right words to tell them to piss off, it's Sunday, wankers. Don't mind me."

The cold was nippy. It was probably going to snow soon, and so most people were drawn like moths to the heat of the inside of stores and the pubs, reluctant to get out unless there was a next heated interior close by. Which left them the only ones still to be outside, seated at the last of the pub tables under a lonely heating lamp.

Puffs of smoke twirled up from hot drinks, while he continued on his phone. His hands were shaking.

Richard laughed. "Are you positive we shouldn't go inside? Martin? You don't mind?"

"I'm fine," Aidan informed them he was still listening in on their conversation without looking up. He was the kind of guy who was hardly bothered by anything. Even when he swore, he had that attitude about it that made it impossible to be offended by it. And he liked to swear. 

He flipped the phone cover shut at last and pocketed it. "So. Where's our artist off to anyway? Exhibition? Oh, Martin, pass the sugar?" 

"He's just finalizing some plans at the Saatchi 'round the corner," Richard waved his hand indiscriminately in the gallery's general direction, as if his boyfriend having an art opening was a commonplace thing. Which it was. "He shouldn't be much longer." 

Martin gave the sugar caddy a minute shove in Aidan's direction. "It's already got sugar in it. You know that, right?"

"Not nearly enough," Aidan countered. He continued to pour another loaded spoonful in, stirred and sampled. The broad smile that followed said it all.

Under the table, Aidan nudged Richard with his foot. "He's been busy lately, hasn't he? Like, he's never there when I'm around anymore." And whenever Aidan was around, he tended to be _around_ , claiming the most comfortable couch in the living room, not leaving until Richard went to bed.

Surreptitiously, Martin leaned forward and moved the sugars back into the center of the table. 

"The galleries are planning next year's schedule," Richard explained. "This time of year, he's got to go around and see them all to set up his showings. It's a formality, really, but they want to talk once he gets there, of course. And Dean can't say no to anyone. You know how he gets when he starts talking about his work."

"Like they could tell him no." Aidan smiled at Richard, whom he knew to be proud of his partner's success. "He's one of the best London's got." He took another drink to warm up, but didn't stop shivering. It was just so damn crowded inside. For an actor, Aidan liked to have some space around himself to breathe. "Does he still have the scruff?"

He eyed the sugar pot, up at Martin, and decided against it.

Over the rim of his coffee mug, Richard's eyes laughed, "Some," he chuckled. "He claims it keeps him warm."

"Isn't that supposed to be your job?" Martin muttered uncharacteristically.

"When I'm not around, I suppose," was Richard's reply.

"Don't be a sourpuss," laughed Aidan. "Scruff suits him. Speaking of which," he nudged Richard again, "it wouldn't look amiss on you either. I'm telling you, it's too cold to be so clean shaved."

He wisely shut his mouth when it came to Martin, who had tried a mustache once and instantly aged some ten years, much to the man's personal chagrin.

So when a silhouette that could be Dean's walked out of the Leicester Square exit, the change of topic was welcome. Aidan warmly gestured to his best friend. "Guess who's here. Go, drag him here and let's get ourselves a warm place."

"Gents," Dean nodded cordially to Martin and Aidan, and leaned down to kiss Richard on the lips, unworried about the public display. "Mmm, mocha valencia. My favorite."

"We were just moving inside," Martin told him, never completely comfortable with what he referred to as Dean and Richard's _PDAs_. "Aidan's cold."

"Good plan," Dean smiled in Aidan's direction. "You do look a little cold Aidan. Are you feeling all right?"

Aidan waved his hand about. "Fine, fine." He berated himself inwardly for that last spoonful of sugar. Getting up wasn't a smart choice right now—his legs were tingly and yet for some odd reason he felt like he was on a sugar low. So he figured that the only plausible reason for him to remain sitting instead of admitting weakness was to pull out his pack of cigarettes. "Hi Deano. You three go right ahead, I'll join you in a bit."

Dean, the constant observer of all things, sat down next to Aidan. "I'll catch up," he told Richard and Martin. "Get me something?"

After the two had moved inside, Dean pulled a second cigarette from the box in front of Aidan and lit it. "So... what's up with you? Are you coming down with something?"

"Nah," Aidan shrugged, pushing the cig box toward him. "Happens every winter. Just need more sun, is all." He nodded up at him. "What's up? Haven't seen you around for ages. Rich says your business is doing better than normal. That's great."

Dean shrugged. "I got an idea last Spring for a series with ancient Egyptian influences. It really took off." he took a long drag from the cigarette in his hand and exhaled it with a cough. "How do you smoke these things?" he wondered with a wry smile. "It looks so cool, but I'm afraid I'm fated to be terminally un-cool."

When Aidan didn't answer, Dean studied him more carefully. Unlike Dean, Aidan was blessed with gorgeous olive-toned skin, which gave him a swarthy look. He seemed paler than normal. And tired. Dark circles were under his eyes, and he seemed as if he'd lost some weight. He looked like a much less vibrant version of himself.

"Any jobs pending?" Dean asked.

"Trying out for A Midsummer Night's Dream, actually. Something different for a change, right? Looks like I'll be on the stage in tights in a while, if things go well." Aidan took a deep drag, following a couple walk out the pub and cling to each other for warmth. Perhaps it was time again to look for a warm body somewhere.

He wheezed, looked at the cigarette, and cursed his luck. This was worse than usual in winter. He was probably coming down with a cold, he thought—just when he could really do without setbacks for a while. His bank balance was meager enough as it was.

"Hey, Egypt's cool," he covered up his lightheadedness. "Have you got pics? You should go there some time. Rich keeps telling me he really wants to go on a hol—"

But oh, something was uncomfortably wrong.

"—can you fetch Rich?"

"Aidan?" Dean watched as Aidan's face became ashen. "What is it? Did you forget your wallet again?" he joked to try to disguise his rising alarm.

Aidan did not respond—did not even bother giving him that usual deadpan face that he had perfected for Dean. He pushed his seat back, as if physically distancing himself from the table would make things all right. Except his body didn't return to normal. "Richard, please. Don't fucking—"

Dean felt as sick as Aidan looked at that moment. "I'm not leaving you here like this!" His fingers scrambled into his coat pocket for his cell phone and he texted Richard,

_Come back NOW._

"He'll be right here," Dean assured him, taking Aidan's cold hand in his own. "I promise."

Several people were catching on that something was amiss. They were giving the both of them concerned looks, but nobody seemed inclined to do something. Aidan groaned. He was about to reach for his own phone to look it up, or call someone, or anything, because the pub was rowdy and Dean's message wouldn't be read until some minutes from now.

"Dean?" Richard's hand found his lover's shoulder. "You said come?"

He needed no answer to turn his eyes on his friend, frowned, and took off his coat to wrap around him at once. Richard knelt in front of him. "Are you cold? What is the matter? Aid, need me to get you anything?"

"I think he's sick, or—or something," Dean told Richard. "We were about to get up and come inside, but he acted as if he couldn't stand. He begged me to get you. I think we should call for an ambulance, Rich."

"What's this, then?" Martin's concerned gaze fell upon Aidan. "My boy," he reached for Aidan's wrist and felt for his pulse, which he found to be quite erratic. "Yes, Dean. By all means, call for help—right away! Can you speak to us, Aidan?"

Aidan nodded his head weakly. He was just feeling under the weather—had been feeling under the weather for a few weeks now. It would blow over, wouldn't it?

But those were definitely heart palpitations. And since when had cold sweat joined his lethargy?

"No ambulance," he muttered. Ambulances cost too bloody much for someone on his income. "Richard? Drive me there?"

"You—" But Richard was already on the phone. He had not seen Aidan like this before—like he was about to pass out. "Yes," he said to the phone operator. "No, he's—yes, all right. Keep on the phone, got it. _Martin, don't move him._ " Martin wasn't. "No, we're outside. He's sweating. I think he's—oh God, I think he just fainted."

He was pacing back and forth for the ambulance to arrive. Richard wished he could do something. Martin knew what to do better than he did. Richard's heart beat in the back of his throat, and he pulled Dean against him to lean on. "What happened? I've never seen him like this."

"Maybe it's the flu," Dean supplied lamely.

"Could very well be," Martin affirmed. "When I was at uni, my roommate had the flu and passed out. He was dehydrated."

This made Dean feel a little bit better, but Aidan's coloration continued to alarm him—especially the blue creeping into his lips. He didn't want to say anything about it, but as the time stretched into agonizing minutes and the ambulance didn't come, and Aidan didn't wake, and his pallor grew worse, all three of them felt quite panicky.

At last, when they felt they couldn't possibly wait any longer, the tell-tale singsong siren signaled the ambulance's arrival.

"He's not going to be happy with you, calling for them," Martin fretted to Richard.

"Money's not a problem," Dean said quickly. "Whatever it takes, Martin, I'll pay it."

"We'll pay," corrected Richard, who wasn't into continuing the subject as long as Aidan was like that. "What's going on, Martin? He's—he's breathing, right? Tell me he's breathing." Wide-eyed, he stared at his friend lying passed out over the table, while a woman made her way through and took over from Martin.

She checked his pulse and eyes first, looked over at her partner with concern, and he made it to her at once.

"Hospital," she said. To Richard she raised her following question. "Has he been like this before?"

"Never," Richard answered immediately. "He's the most energetic person we know."

"He did mention not feeling well, though," Martin reminded them, "not thirty minutes ago. And his hands were shaking."

"When we tried to get up from the table, he couldn't," Dean told them. "He tried to downplay it, but his face... it lost all color. And now... well his lips are turning blue."

"I see." While the paramedic's partner moved to Aidan's other side, she turned between Aidan and his friends. She looked like she had made up her mind about that, but did not want to cause more worry. "Is either of you family? We're going to take him to the ER immediately. One of you can come." At five foot high, she was surprisingly in control of the situation, and left them to figure out who that should be, while she and her partner moved Aidan onto a stretcher with care and efficiency.

Richard sat down, defeated. He reached for Dean's hand. To think that only hours ago, Aidan had been suggesting going out and having a chat... Now he lay unconscious on an ambulance stretcher, for God knew what reason, and none of them had seen it coming. Aidan was never sick. He didn't like drama in his life, unless it was for laughs or on a stage. He would think that being lifted into an ambulance with so many people watching was a tad much. 

"Will he be all right?" he asked.

The other paramedic closed one door, and shook his head. "I can't say. We're taking him to the hospital now." He held the other door open in waiting.

Richard looked between the three of them. It was decided without discussion. "I'll call you as soon as I know more, I promise."

Martin and Dean, left alone at the curb—Dean with Richard's car keys dangling from his hand—were both lost in thought. Their thoughts centered around the horror of being sick in London and no family around. The concern was replaced by the reassurance that they were their own little family, surrounded by a loyal circle of friends.

"Did you want to drive to the hospital, then?" Martin asked, at length.

"I... they didn't say which one," Dean finally realized. "Did you hear them say?"

Martin sadly shook his head to the negative.

"Then I suppose we wait for Richard to call," Dean slipped the keys into his pocket. "Perhaps it's something simple, like the flu, or pneumonia," he added, recalling all too vividly the blue of Aidan's lips. 

"I'm sure it's something simple," Martin rested a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Aidan wouldn't have it any other way."

\- - - - -

Paperwork and regulations took forever at the Royal Brompton Hospital, Richard found out.

He had spent the ride in the ambulance clutching Aidan's increasingly cold hand, and had been there when he'd woken up. But the relief had been short-lived—he had been ushered into the hospital and into an examination room, and that was about it when it came to fast responses. One of the paramedics had offered him three sets of papers and then a seat and a coffee. "He's going through some checks now. In the meantime, would you be so kind as to fill these in?"

She had disappeared and left him in front of a closed door, holding a list of things he didn't know how to fill in.

The first thing he had done was call Dean.

Forty minutes later, Richard welcomed Dean and Martin by pulling Dean in a close hug, then offering Martin a more platonic one. "He's still in there," he explained as he gestured at one of the doors down the hall. His concern made him look tired. "He woke up in the ambulance. Should it take this long? He's been in there for more than half an hour now. They won't tell me anything here."

Dean's head was filled with terrible, dark thoughts. They had always plagued him. All too easily he could imagine what was happening to Aidan happening to Richard instead. It was this imaginative streak, Richard insisted, that made his art so successful. He felt things so deeply.

"I'm sure they're just doing a thorough check," Martin assured them. "People don't just keel over like that every day now, do they?"

Dean merely clung to Richard's hand. "I'm glad you were here for him, Rich."

"I've never seen him sick," said Richard quietly, still upset. The clock had shifted to 10 PM, any chances of fun gone and no hope for a good sleep, either. This would haunt him for some days to come.

He fetched them a coffee and sat back down on his plastic—and anything but comfortable—seat, when the examination room opened and a middle aged man asked Richard to join him. "Dr. Patel," he offered a hand. "You're a friend of Mr. Turner's?"

"Richard Armitage. Almost ten years now."

"Dr. Patel," Martin butted in, "would you mind if we come too?"

For a moment the doctor considered this. He hung his head though. "I'm afraid not this time. It would really be better if one of you was kin, but I've been told they are not in the country. I'm sorry. Mr. Turner requested Richard specifically. Mr. Armitage, will you follow me?"

Dean's eyes shone with admiration and he squeezed Richard's arm.

"He asked for _me_?" Richard looked a strange combination of proud and frightened.

"Yes, sir, he did," Dr. Patel replied. "Will you come back with me?"

"Yes. Yes, of course," Richard handed his half-drunk coffee to Dean as he rose. To his friends he said, "I'll tell you whatever I find out as soon as I can, I promise." Then he followed Dr. Patel through the hissing examination area doors.

Aidan was sitting on the examination table. His appearance was rumpled, and it looked like his arms were locked in place to keep himself from collapsing like a plum pudding. The smile he gave Richard, which was meant to be reassuring, was shaky.

That he was awake was supposed to be a good thing. Except if it was, Aidan would not have requested Richard to come in alone.

Dr. Patel offered Richard a seat and took place in his own office chair. He folded his hands, turned his eyes on Aidan, and started very slowly, "We'd like to keep him here overnight."

Richard studied Aidan. He looked better than he had back at the café, but still very unsteady. Some color had returned to his cheeks, but not enough for his pallor to be called a remotely healthy hue.

"So what is it, then?" Richard wondered. "Is it the flu? I'm always telling this one to—"

"It's a bit more complicated than that, I'm afraid," the doctor interrupted. "You see, an X-ray of his torso revealed what I suspect might be an anomaly. It's not my specialization, so I don't want to make any premature diagnoses. Thankfully, one of the best cardiologists in the U.S.—Dr. Lee Pace—will be arriving here tomorrow. He's giving a lecture series, and I'm going to ask him to have a look at Aidan. I think," he turned to Aidan, "you have a congenital heart defect that may have been undiagnosed previously."

Aidan looked out the window at those words. His eyes bore the saddest expression. He knew, and he didn't want Richard to see it. Dr. Patel had explained him what it would mean for him if his diagnosis was right. It made sense—his legs had more trouble getting into his pants lately, something he had previously attributed to gaining weight but which turned out to be trouble with containing fluids instead. Coffee, and smoking, and all of that would have to change.

But if Dr. Patel was right, that didn't mean it would eventually go away.

"Rich," croaked he, "could you not call Mom and Dad about this until we're sure?"

He was terrified.

"Well, yes, yes, of course," Richard murmured. "I'd leave that to you, Aidan. But let's not put the cart before the horse here. Let's see what this expert thinks before we panic, all right?"

He turned to Dr. Patel. "It could be a mess-up with the X-ray. A—a phantom spot or something? That sort of thing happens all the time, right? I saw it on Grey's Anatomy."

"He made several X-rays," Aidan said to the window. "Could you—could you fetch me my things? My pajamas, toothbrush... those sorts of things? I'm sure Dr. Pace will tell us it's nothing, but I really don't want to sleep here in a hospital shift."

Dr. Patel inclined his head. "Aidan is doing fine now. It's only for his own safety, of course, until we see what Dr. Pace can tell us. It's best if he stays here and gets some rest. If it's not too much to ask..."

"Of course," Richard nodded. "We want the best possible treatment for him. I'll go get your things, Aidan," he told his friend. "Listen, I need you to be honest with the doctors about how you feel. No bravado and no theatrics, agreed?"

Aidan turned to him. From one look, Richard knew he was scared, which would make it hard on him to be fully honest without trying to downplay things. "...Thanks. You're the best, Rich."

If they were alone, he would have pulled his friend in for a hug. Instead Aidan moved on the examination table. He didn't know what was expected of him.

Dr. Patel got up and shook Richard's hand. "We're going to find him a room to stay now. If you ask for his name at the reception desk when you return, they will be able to give you his room number. Aidan has requested to let you come in whenever you like, but he's very tired. It would be wonderful if you return with the necessities as soon as you can so he can recover from what he's just been through."

Aidan opened his mouth to protest this victim role that the doctor was intent on pushing onto him, but he shut up when he remembered what he'd just promised Richard. "Bring me back a good book?" he asked after him, when Richard got to the door. 

"I will," Richard leaned in and kissed him on the forehead—a paternal, stilted gesture he immediately regretted. "You, my friend, rest, and cooperate with the doctors. I'll be back soon," he tried to smile with reassurance.

Dean, whom he found alone in the waiting room, immediately read his fear on his face.

"Richard?" Dean's blues eyes shone, "what's wrong with him?"

"I think it's worse than we imagined," Richard told him. "We won't know for sure until they run some tests. I've got the key to Aidan's flat. We're to swing by and get some things for him, all right?"

"Yes, yes of course," Dean nodded. "Martin had to go. He mentioned something about an early class and having to prepare a presentation of some sort."

"It's all for the best," Richard nodded. "The mess in Aidan's apartment would only make Martin twitch and run for the door."

\- - - - -

When they arrived at Aidan's tiny apartment, it was in a typical state of disarray. "How does he live like this?" Dean wondered.

"Same way as everything else," Richard searched for the light switch, "with a heavy dose of optimism." As opposed to Dean, he knew where Aidan kept his pajamas, where to find the necessary items within the chaos that was his bathroom, and that the cupboard in the back of the bedroom held some books.

After perusing over the titles, none of them seemed like they were new. As opposed to Richard's love for discovering new details in old books, Aidan hated having to read something twice. Discussions about that had been heated with neither backing down from their original view, but which had no less ended in laughter and exclamations of _you're insufferable_.

Richard caught Dean's eye and nearly sank through his knees. "It's not fair. Not Aidan."

Dean had him in his arms in seconds, soothing him with soft caresses and kisses. 

"We shouldn't worry until we _know_ ," Dean reminded him. "It's just testing. Nothing more." He kissed Richard's protests quiet and handed him Aidan's backpack. "I put both books in."

"All right," Richard nodded weakly. Dean was right, of course he was. Aidan wouldn't like them considering him terminally ill until they had conclusions. Richard was terrified of losing him, but it wasn't just that.

Aidan was always so full of life. Regardless of people's opinion on him, he made sure he lived every day. Richard had been envious of that on several occasions, especially when obligations tied him down whereas Aidan had been out having fun. Nobody deserved this diagnosis, but least of all him.

It was a painful reminder that they were all mortal, in the end.

"I'm sorry," he muttered. "I don't know what—it's just, it makes me think of Ben. You remember Ben, don't you? When we just started dating."

Dean nodded. "Of course I do. Your cousin. He was only a teenager when he died—and it was from some sort of heart ailment. I can understand why you'd be doubly worried about Aidan." Dean lay his head on Richard's shoulder, as if trying to infuse him with life. 

"But what do you always tell me about worrying—when I get stressed out before one of my art openings?" Dean squeezed him. "It's pointless to fear something that hasn't happened yet."

Richard searched out Dean's lips for a kiss. "I know. I'm going to take this to Aid, see if he needs anything else. You don't have to come."

"Would they even let me in?" Dean furrowed his brow. "It's well after visiting hours have ended. And Aidan should be resting."

Richard shrugged. A guard wasn't going to stop him; Richard would just smuggle Dean in. But Aidan did need to rest. "I might stay, if they let me. Is that all right with you?"

"I think Aidan would really appreciate it," Dean conceded. He didn't relish the idea of spending the night alone. "If you can, you should. Then he won't be so worried."

Richard smiled and kissed him again. "Don't know what I'd do without you."

He looked through the duffel bag to check if he had everything he needed, hugged Dean tightly against him a last time, and straightened. "Come on, I'll give you a ride to the Tube."

By the time he made it back to the hospital, it was just after midnight.

"Visiting hours have ended, Mr. Armitage," the nurse at the receptionist desk told him. "I can make sure your friend gets his belongings."

Richard's shoulders, tensed with not knowing what to expect, fell. Aidan would be in good hands, but somehow that didn't make him feel better. "Can I bring them myself? I'll leave as soon as he's got his things. You could walk with me."

A momentary scowl crossed the woman's face. "I can't leave my desk," she muttered. "He's in room 226. Don't disturb him, or any roommates he might have." It was clear she'd practiced her stern look on many a hospital visitor.

Because of that, Richard did his best to be humble and thank her twice for being so kind.

The antiseptic smell of disease and dying people clung to the walls of the corridor he passed. To his left, a night nurse was following a set of screens in between finishing her Sudoku. A little to the right beeped the tranquil beat of a heart monitor. 224, 225...

Aidan was the sole occupant of room 226. He had found the bed in the corner, curled up on top of the linen, and must have fallen asleep waiting.

Today, and probably for the first time, Aidan actually looked his age. When Richard had met Aidan doing summer stock, some ten years earlier, Aidan had the exuberance and appearance of a teenager. While he'd grown some and filled out, Aidan was always full of energy and hip to the latest trends. The fact that he was thirty-one still astounded Richard.

And yet, with his face pale and drawn in illness, tonight Aidan showed his age—and more. Richard hoped, like Dean had suggested, that what was ailing Aidan really was a simple as the flu or pneumonia. Aidan was a shadow of himself, and it terrified Richard.

Richard slipped into the chair next to Aidan's bed, placing the duffel bag full of belongings on the bedside table. He took Aidan's phone charger from his coat pocket and immediately plugged the phone in. Aidan would want to be able to get online as soon as he opened his eyes. The phone chirped when Richard plugged it in and the noise made Aidan stir.

Richard reached for his hand. "It's all right," he told his friend. "It's only me."

"Oh," smiled Aidan. His eyes had a hard time staying open, but the understanding that he must have fallen asleep began to sink in. He stretched, winced at the cold that was suddenly there, and forced his eyes to open. "Did you get my pajamas?"

"Uh huh," Richard told him. "Two pairs. Aidan, your feet are freezing!" he exclaimed upon touching one of the extremities. "I brought socks as well. Let's get you dressed."

As if Aidan were a sleepy toddler, he allowed Richard to slip socks onto his chilled feet. Richard was alarmed by the puffiness of Aidan's feet, but didn't comment. He didn't want to scare him. "Are you in any pain?" he asked, holding steady a pair of red pajama bottoms for his friend.

"Just tired." With some cajoling, Aidan wriggled his legs into the pants and then his intentionally ratty t-shirt. He groped around for the sheets. "I think I'm feeling a lot better," he said after pulling the linen around him, and reached for Richard's hand. "It'll be fine. Are you staying? I asked the nurse if the other bed was free. Guess what."

Richard squeezed his hand. "I did warn Dean that my staying over with you might be a possibility. We're going to have to tell the staff that I'm your brother, though. Deal?"

Aidan laughed, hushed so that the echo wouldn't carry too far. He felt like he was in a church and any sound was amplified in the unfortunate acoustics of the hospital corridors. "You've got black hair, I've got black hair. I'm an actor, you love drama." Aidan challenged Richard to pick up that old discussion with mischief writ on his face. "Shouldn't be too hard."

"I most decidedly do _not_ love drama," Richard corrected him with a grin, "yet it's part and parcel of any relationship involving you, so I must bear it and press on."

Richard watched fondly as Aidan snuggled down into the covers, leaning over to kiss his forehead. "It's very late," he told him. "You should sleep. I have some lesson plans I can work on," he said, indicating his briefcase. "I'll be right here if you need me, Aidan."

"All right," whispered Aidan.

He fell asleep looking less haggard than he had before.


	3. Barbie's Dream Vacation and Hello Kitty Island

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aidan is tested and receives a diagnosis.

Dr. Pace was a kind doctor. One only needed to look at him to know the kids adored him, and he was probably the subject of half of the nurses' lonely night shift daydreams. There were wrinkles at the corners of his eyes—telltale of a man who smiled frequently. Tall and slim, he bore himself with a straight back. He looked like the kind of doctor who would be honest without being a cold, hardened professional about it.

For a specialist, he was relatively young. 

"So," he leafed through his sheets for a name, "Aidan Turner? And this is...?" His eyes moved to Richard.

"My brother," Aidan said with a steel poker face.

"I'm Richard," Richard extended his hand to shake Dr. Pace's. 

"Richard _Armitage_ ," Dr. Pace noted, reading the name on Aidan's chart.

"We have different fathers," Richard explained lamely.

"Your secret is safe with me." Dr. Pace raised his eyebrows, obviously making the assumption that Aidan and Richard were lovers. "It's hard getting around hospital protocol sometimes."

Richard locked eyes with Aidan and a slow grin crept over his features.

For once, Aidan thought his acting was going to be second to his friend's. He dared not laugh, because that would give them away, so he shifted and went for the uncomfortable look. "It's fine if he's here with me, right? I heard they made a fuss when he brought my pajamas yesterday."

"It was after hours, it's true," the doctor smiled, "and they have a tough old bird guarding the post out there. She scares even me," he smiled. "Yet here you both are. I'd like you both to call me Lee, if that's all right."

"First-name basis, eh?" Richard wondered. "That must mean we're going to be seeing a lot of you."

"I have to express my hope that this will be the last time we talk like this," Dr. Pace was apt to reply, and Aidan couldn't help but agree.

Lee opened a folder with a minimal collection of records inside. "The blood samples we took this morning have been analyzed. I've seen the X-rays, too. Before we get to that, could you tell me in your own words what happened, Aidan?"

Aidan squeezed Richard's hand. It was no longer fun. "I fainted. I felt like I couldn't breathe, except I know I was breathing normally. My heart was beating fast, and then," he swallowed, "then everything became black. I was still there when that happened."

"I wasn't with him at the time," Richard told Lee. "Our friend Dean was. He told me exactly what Aidan said. And that he was weak and couldn't stand up. He got really, really pale. And his lips were blue. That was the scariest thing of all."

"I got blue?" That was new for Aidan. "Are you serious?" No wonder everyone was so concerned about him. Some people fainted all the time; that was what he had been telling himself. Fainting was no big deal. Frightening that it happened to him, but surely just a one-time thing due to his lack of looking after himself all that well lately. But the blue lips was new.

Lee hummed and made some notes. "Blue lips or skin tend to imply lack of oxygen, I'm afraid. You didn't feel light-headed?"

Aidan thought back. "No, I don't think so. But my heart was beating fast. I think I was clammy, the way you get clammy when you've got a fever. Does that say anything?"

"I don't want to frighten you," Dr. Pace began, although it was clear that both men were already quite worried, "but based on your initial tests and symptoms, I'm concerned that you might have some sort of congenital heart defect—a defect that's gone undiagnosed, as least according to your medical records. You haven't seen a lot of doctors in your lifetime, have you, Aidan?"

Aidan shook his head mutely. "What does that mean?" Because 'heart defect' was only making him scared, and he had no idea how 'congenital' would add to that. "Do I need surgery?"

"It means that you may have a malformation of certain parts of your heart, which you've probably had since you were born," Lee told him. "Only now that you're continuing to grow—or perhaps made some recent lifestyle changes—are the irregularities starting to actually bother you. Tell me, how long have you been struggling with being tired and dizzy?"

"A few weeks." He had to think about that before he could answer it. It wasn't the whole truth—to Aidan it was so common to have the symptoms when the days got colder that he had stopped paying attention to those details. It was the same every year. And he didn't think he had changed his lifestyle all that much. He didn't smoke more, nor drink gallons of coffee to wake up. The only thing was that he hadn't had a steady position for a while now, and the auditions had been taxing. "Does that mean that if I change things, it shouldn't be a problem?"

"I'd like to run some more tests, especially an electro- and echo-cardiogram and a Doppler exam, to see how your circulation's working," Lee said. "You're lucky. This hospital has a state of the art cardiology department. I don't want to give a diagnosis or cause you any undue panic, Aidan. Especially before testing. Twenty-four hours from now, after I've studied your results, I should have a solid answer for you. Can you handle another twenty-four hours?"

Aidan's hope disappeared. "Twenty-four hours in the hospital?" He exchanged a look with Richard. The hospital wasn't so bad, but that was because up until now he had only needed to occupy a bed and sleep in it.

"Are there things he can't do?" Richard followed up with. 

Immediately, Aidan dreaded being denied greasy burgers and regular smokes.

"I'm not the kind of doctor who likes his patients to worry unnecessarily," Lee smiled gently. "I will give you two rules to follow until tomorrow morning, then. No smoking... and no running. Deal?"

"Twenty-four hours?" Aidan turned to his best friend. "Twenty-four hours of no smoking? How am I supposed to do that?" He had tried to quit on behalf of peer pressure several times—he had never been successful for more than a few days. And those days had been hell. He looked at Lee again, his distress evident. "Are you sure that's good for me when I've got trouble with my heart? I mean, you're asking me not to smoke. I haven't got anything else to do in this place."

He wondered, then sat forward eagerly. "Can Rich bring me my Xbox? I can wear headphones, of course. But you're asking me to quit smoking without a distraction. If I can play some games, that'd be a lot easier."

Next to him, he noticed Richard shaking his head in amusement. "What? It's not an impossible request," Aidan defended himself. "Is it?"

It was easier to focus on not smoking than on having a heart defect. Aidan had no idea what he'd do if the doctor told him he would have to stop smoking permanently, and all those other things that came with heart disease. What was more frightening however, was that this could get worse. He was thirty-one now; he already noticed superficial wounds healing slower than they had done at twenty. How many years would he have left?

"I have to teach a class in ninety minutes," Richard told them, leaning over to give Aidan a kiss on the top of his head, "but if the doc—if _Lee_ —says it's all right, I can have Dean bring you the Xbox." He turned expectantly to Dr. Pace.

"I suppose it's okay," Lee agreed. "But no violent games. It's Barbie's Dream Vacation and Hello Kitty Island for you today, Aidan."

"I bet you've got kids, or you wouldn't be saying that so shamelessly," Aidan muttered. He leaned into Richard's easy affection, something they had always shared on a platonic level while using it to fluster others by its hint at intimacy. Richard and Aidan had always made sure Dean would not feel threatened; anyone else was fair game. "Can you come over after work?"

"Nope, no kids," Lee smiled, "except for some of my patients."

"Tonight's my night class," Richard reminded him. "Dean's got the day free. I'll send him, if that's all right. He was disappointed he couldn't see you last night."

Aidan frowned at that odd statement. Dean and him knew each other as collateral—they tended to see each other frequently because of their connection to Richard alone. It was the only thing they had in common. "Well, if he wants to..." He trailed off.

He'd rather ask the—frankly quite charming—doctor to stay a while longer. But that conversation was coming to an end. "Will we continue this tomorrow?"

"To be honest, I'd rather do your testing sooner rather than later," the tall American smiled. "But, you see, I've been brought here to do a presentation for these good people. I'd hate to shun their hospitality. So you, my friend, must stay the night. In the morning, I promise you'll have my undivided attention." Lee put a steadying hand on Aidan's shoulder.

"Something to look forward to," replied his patient. He nodded at Lee, then got up and reached for Richard's hand. He was being spoiled for attention, and he liked it.

\- - - - -

Of course, Barbie's Dream Vacation was abandoned in favor of the sound of people being run over and foul language, thankfully restricted to the sound of Aidan and Dean's headphones.

Dean actually preferred playing Xbox with Aidan to actually having to _converse_ with Aidan, especially today.

He had never completely warmed to Aidan—at least not as warmly as Richard had. Aidan, although he had a semi-professional acting career, seemed mostly rudderless. That, combined with his messy, disorganized lifestyle was a turn-off to Dean. Aidan was attractive enough, sure, but they never seemed to be able to get along comfortably, especially when Richard wasn't around as a buffer.

But Richard adored Aidan, and for that reason alone, Dean made an effort—especially now that Aidan was hospitalized, and clearly scared. Dean too had been scared when Aidan's lips had turned blue. 

When Aidan's on-screen character popped up from behind a trio of crates and shot Dean's character in the head, Dean let out a groan. "You are too good at this," he lamented, pulling the headphones down to his neck.

On the bed—but anything but helpless—Aidan was smiling from ear to ear, and practically roared with laughter. "It's—oh, you really didn't see that coming? Come on, I'm not buying it!" He continued his gloating for another minute, but gradually calmed down and stopped clutching the controller. "We can play something else," he offered. "What are you good at?"

He hadn't paid attention to being calm, and the nurse glared at them while she walked by. She had given them several warnings already, but what could she do, other than send Dean away in the middle of visiting hours? Mostly all of the visiting kids had asked if they could come watch or play along, which was why breaking up the event was likely to get them a lot of crying children.

"Why don't _you_ play something?" Dean suggested. "And I'll draw you. Maybe then Attila the Hun will lay off for a bit."

He reached into the valise he'd brought along and pulled out a sketch pad. "Pick something a little... lower key."

"Oh, come off it, that's no fun." And Dean was met with several sets of pleading eyes, the most prominent of which seemed to tell the others exactly how it was done. "Besides, the only low key game I've got is South Park, and that's hardly suitable for the children, isn't it?"

"My sister has a board game!" said one of the kids. "Do you want to play a board game? I can ask—mister? Mister, you're not looking— _Nurse!_ "

Aidan was sinking back on the bed, his eyes half closed. The kids immediately dispersed. Some went to find the head nurse, but others simply ran because they were scared. Only Dean was left in the room when she made it there, gave him a stern look, and took his pulse. "I believe Dr. Pace told you to not exert yourself. There, you'll be fine. But I'm taking these games away from you for a few hours."

Dean's own heart was racing and his face felt tingly. 

"Richard told you not to overdo it," he scolded Aidan to hide his fear. "Your skin tone when from antique white to ivory in under two seconds, Aidan!"

"Oh, shut up," Aidan fired right back, equally trying to mask his feeling of incompetence and stupid recklessness. "Be glad you don't get to paint me in fucking corpse blue."

"Language," hissed the nurse. "In case you haven't noticed, you've got yourselves a bit of an audience."

From the door, two boys and a girl looked on with slack jaws and wide eyes.

Aidan screwed his eyes shut. The room spun still above and around him, and his heart beat irregularly, but fast. "Oh, for fuck's sake, close the door, someone, will you? Haven't you got pills for this?"

"Learn to behave and you wouldn't need them," she bit back. "Get some rest. I mean it. If I catch you getting excited over something, I'm removing it from this room." But despite her hard words, her hands were gentle when they tucked Aidan in. In her eyes lay the gentleness of a mother. "If you're good, I'll let you pick from the extended dinner chart tonight, all right?"

Then she was off, and Aidan was left alone in the room with Dean, the door closed after the nurse left the room.

"...Sorry," Aidan said reluctantly. "I freaked. It wasn't cool to lash out at you."

"You don't look so good." Dean regretted the words the moment he said them. "I—I'm sorry. It's just, I'm so used to seeing you in a different setting. I've never been particularly good at caring for sick people. I never know what to say or do." He slid a chair close to Aidan's bed and sat down in it. "You're feeling badly right now, aren't you? Talk to me about it."

"You don't have to talk to me if you don't want to." There was no bite to the words. "I'm not a leper, Dean. I'm not charity, and you don't have to try and turn me into charity either. This isn't your fault. I just—it'll get better. It's just some stupid thing I have to put behind me. Just let me lie like this for a while. Don't—no, I know that face, don't act like I've got cancer. It'll get better."

They were pretty words to cloak up how every breath made him more breathless.

"I'm not Richard," Dean muttered, addressing the painful truth, "I'm sorry. If he were here, he'd put you at ease, I'm sure. And if there's someone you'd rather be here than me, please, let me know. I'll call that person. Because, truth is... you're being a little insufferable right now, and I don't know what to say to you."

Aidan opened his mouth to protest. He was doing his best not to worry the people around him, so how was he being insufferable? "Whatever," he muttered. For all his artistic value, Aidan had always found Dean to be boring beyond words, and at least they were finally admitting that without Richard, they had nothing that joined them. He tossed about and turned his back on his best friend's partner. "Draw something, or go home. I'm going to sleep."

Still, Dean's gall continued to make daggers of Aidan's thoughts. Aidan stretched. If he didn't curl up, he'd breathe better.

Aidan's lips were starting to turn that alarming shade of blue again, and Dean didn't dare say the words that wanted to come from his own lips.

"I'm staying," he said quietly, if not a bit stubbornly, "until you fall asleep. Maybe longer. I don't have anywhere else to be."

The sheets were pulled up higher. "Suit yourself."

They remained like that until Aidan stopped paying attention to Dean's presence. He slipped into a doze of which he wasn't sure whether it was a good one or whether he ought to warn someone. The room spun, and his breaths were short.

There, where Dean could not see him, Aidan's eyes became glassy with tears. Why was this happening to him? As much as he tried to tell himself that it was nothing, it was becoming harder to believe himself. What if soon he couldn't run on stage anymore? What company would want him if he couldn't run? He was an actor, he was supposed to be able to impersonate everyone.

What if he didn't make it past another year?

He sniffed and cursed his weakness from under the blankets. Things would be better if Richard was here. Richard always knew the right things to say.

A few minutes later, Dean came over and sat down on the edge of Aidan's bed. "You should stop fighting sleep," he said gently. "You need rest now more than ever, Aidan."

When Aidan didn't look his way, Dean went on. "I drew you just now. I had to do it from memory since you were ignoring me," Aidan heard the sound of a piece of paper being ripped from a tablet. "It's what you looked like last night when the ambulance took you away. Please, take a look at it before you decide to do anything else too stressful."

Dean lay the paper down on the bed next to Aidan's hip. "It's ten o'clock," he whispered, "and I have to go. I'm sorry you're sick. And I'm sorry I'm not Richard, okay? No one can take his place. We both know that. But I hope you can give me a chance to be there for you. Goodnight, Aidan."

Dean picked up his valise and slipped soundlessly from the room.

\- - - - -

Richard was with Aidan the next morning when he was told to stay another few days, and Aidan was that glad Dean was not there to draw his likeness that time. He did not think he could have handled it.

Congenital heart disease. That was to be his poison. For all the medical luck he had had in his life, never having broken anything or needed stiches or anything, that luck bore the greatest misfortune at the flip side of the coin. 

It was why nobody had noticed the defect until now.

It wasn't going to get better. They couldn't even perform surgery on him. He'd have to stop smoking, lay off anything that could raise his blood pressure, and twiddle his thumbs in the hopes of a miracle.

He needed a donor.

Yet he was last in line on the list.

Aidan asked if Richard could leave him alone for a bit after their return to his room.

Richard, despite steeling himself to be brave for Aidan, regardless of the news, had failed. His eyes were filled with tears. "I don't want to leave you alone," he told his friend. "You shouldn't be alone after hearing this sort of news."

Aidan was dying. He needed a heart transplant. 

And he had been given a year to live—at most.

Aidan's eyes were rimmed with tears. He was terrified. "I don't want to tell Mom and Dad," whispered he. "I don't want to see them like this." He looked lost in the white hospital hall. "What am I doing now? I can't do anything..."

"You don't _have_ to do anything," Richard assured him, sitting down next to him on the bed and taking his hand. "And you can also start thinking about all the things you'd like to do but haven't tried. What would you think," he asked carefully, "about coming to live with me and Dean? We have two extra bedrooms at our flat."

It was a terrible idea. Aidan immediately shook his head. "You'll remember me getting worse." _Dying_. He was going to be dying. "I don't want you to think of me and remember me like that." Tears welled up again, and he lunged forward to press himself against Richard's chest, his arms holding him close. "It's not fair. I was supposed to go skydiving. I'm not done enjoying a cold beer in summer. I'm supposed to make it big some day."

"Hey," Richard kissed the top of his head and held him, rocking. "All those things can still happen. You're on a transplant list already, and you just found out thirty minutes ago. I'm sure Dr. Pace will do everything he can to expedite things for you, because of your age... right?"

"That's bullshit," mumbled Aidan. "I don't have children. I'm not married. Hell, I don't even have a steady job. Why would my age change things?" He sniffed. "I wish I was home with a sodding oversize pizza and a smoke."

"Aidan," Richard tipped Aidan's face up to meet his eyes, "you don't _want children,_ " he chuckled. "What I meant was, you'll certainly be approved for a heart sooner than an old man would. You have plenty more years ahead of you. When I get home, I'm going to start making some phone calls and see what we can do to expedite this for you."

It was selfish and unfair to the others on the list, but Aidan did not care. He nodded, his chin leaning on Richard's index finger. "Thank you. I'll—," he waved over at his bed, "—I'll try and get some sleep. If you could stay until I'm out, I'd really appreciate it."

He knew he had to keep up his hope for a donor heart. He couldn't give up that easily. It would be like he was already dead. But it was just not as easy to make himself truly believe that, not now. "Maybe you could ask Dr. Pace to come check up on me frequently?" he attempted to lighten the mood, if only for himself.

Richard kicked off his shoes and lay back on Aidan's bed. "Here," he held out his arms, "lie with me." 

Once Aidan had settled down with his head on Richard's shoulder and an arm around his waist, Richard pulled the covers up around them. "I know some people at the university who have colleagues on the medical staffs at several local hospitals. Maybe we can pull some strings. I don't want to get your hopes up; I'm only a lowly professor, after all. But I'd walk through fire for you, Aidan."

Despite the fact that Aidan had no partner and knew he was not going to make it through this with the support of one, he felt loved in Richard's arms. It was a pleasant thought. "I'll try to stretch my time as long as I can. That includes smoking and coffee. So please bear with me if I'm insufferable for a while." His eyes closed, his hands clutching Richard's ironed shirt. "You're the best friend anyone could have."

"Aidan, I love you," Richard's voice was hoarse. "You know I do. Since the moment we met, I knew we were destined to be friends. I hope you'll take me up on my invitation to live with us. I know Dean won't mind. And—perhaps this is selfish—but I want to spend every moment with you that I possibly can."

Dean wouldn't mind because their townhouse was like a mansion, Aidan thought to himself. They had more space to avoid each other than they had here. "I mean it; I don't want you to remember me wasting away. That's not me."

"And I meant what I said. I want to be with you through it all." Richard stroked his back reassuringly. "The good, the bad and the ugly. You think I'm some fair-weather friend, do you?"

"Not you," Aidan replied from under the sheets. His heart was fluttering again. It was a dreadful feeling. "I just don't want to be a bother to you. You live with Dean, not with me. And I know I'm going to be a pain in the ass eventually."

That said, it would be nice not to live on his own. It would be do much easier to wallow if someone wasn't there to distract him.

"Maybe. We'll see when I get out of here."

Richard snorted. "You're a pain in the ass _now._ " And he tightened his grip, holding Aidan until the man's breathing evened out in sleep.

\- - - - -

It was late before Richard got home, that night, so late that _early_ would have been a more apt description. He slipped into bed, found Dean in the dark, and moved himself into the familiar warmth of his partner.

But sleep did not come. He lay listening to the steady heartbeat of the man next to him, feeling blessed that Dean was alive and healthy, and yet guilty that Aidan had lost that. He would call his parents in the morning. Richard dreaded that. He had kept strong for Aidan; he wasn't sure if he could do the same in front of his parents.

"Are you awake?" he whispered, so quietly that it couldn't hurt if Dean was not.

"Yeah," Dean whispered in the darkness, not wanting to break the peaceful silence, rolling to face him. "How is he? It's bad, isn't it?"

Richard kissed Dean, gently. He needed it. "It'll get worse," he said, not wanting to speak too loudly for the sake of his own emotions. "The doctor says he needs a donor heart. I'm afraid of losing him, Dean. He's not doing very well."

Dean was surprised to feel a rush of sympathy—although it was more directed at Richard than it was at Aidan. Richard, for reasons Dean didn't completely understand, was crazy about Aidan. He loved him like a kid brother. Losing Aidan would destroy Richard.

"Oh god... oh, _Rich,_ " he whispered. "But surely... he's young, and hearts become available often, don't they? I mean, people die every day and leave healthy hearts behind, right?"

"I don't know. Dr. Pace says he will do his best, but he sounded like he was expressing hope rather than faith." Richard was close to breaking down again. "I've been keeping myself together all day for him, but I don't—I—oh god, Dean, what am I supposed to do? There needs to be something I can do. I...I asked him to stay here. I don't want him to be by himself. What if he fainted and didn't—"

Dean's stomach lurched. "Y—you asked him to live with us— _here_?"

"We've got the space. I don't want him to be alone during this, Dean. It's all right, isn't it? He could have the room in the attic."

"It wasn't the space I was worried about," Dean told him. "It's just... well, neither of us has any medical training. What if it gets bad? What if something happens? I'd panic. I'm sure I would."

Richard didn't answer immediately. Dean knew Richard had to be thinking the same thing.

"If he stays here," Dean told him, "we make a bedroom for him downstairs. We can turn my studio into a bedroom for him and I can set up a temporary studio in the attic. It's probably not good for him to be climbing so much, is it?" Dean slipped closer to Richard, snuggling into the space beneath his chin. It'll be a good opportunity for me to purge and put some stuff in storage."

"Right, you're right. The attic would be too much for him, I forgot." Caring a great deal did not automatically include knowing how to care best. "Your studio would be great for him. There is plenty of light there. You wouldn't mind?"

In the dark, Richard held onto the support of his partner's presence. His eyelids were becoming heavier. "I'm going to figure out anything I can to keep him alive until they find a heart. He's not going to leave us without a fight."

Dean lay awake in the gray light of early morning, long after Richard had fallen asleep. He felt desolate. It seemed that, even as he might be dying, Aidan was managing to come between Dean and the man he'd given his life to.

Finally, he gave up on further rest and got out of bed. The wall clock in the kitchen read 6:20 a.m. when he put on a pot of coffee. On the counter, next to Richard's wallet and keys, was a piece of paper that read:

_Hypoplasia (left side - look up patent ductus arteriosis)._

While he waited for the coffee to brew, Dean sat down at his laptop and searched for the condition.

 _Hypoplasia_ , he read on one of the few websites not filled with a number of medical terms he didn't understand, _means underdevelopment in one of the ventricles of the heart. When left untreated, this may lead to heart failure. It is either caused by genetic factors, or environmental, and is one of the rarest forms of congenital heart disease, but is the most serious._

_In both cases, the presence of a patent ductus arteriosus, a fetal blood vessel that doesn't close shortly after birth as it should, is vital for the patient to survive until heart surgery can be performed. Without it, blood can't circulate to the body or lungs._

_Patent ductus arteriosus is less common in adults, but can have serious consequences. It is usually corrected surgically when diagnosed._

Surgically. That didn't sound so bad. But surgery wouldn't have Richard so upset, Dean thought while fetching his cup of coffee. He put it down on the counter and searched for more information.

 _Treatment strategies for hypoplastic left heart syndrome_. The page was riddled with a shorthand that Dean was unfamiliar with, so undoubtedly written by a doctor. It addressed hypoplasia specifically, rather than the unclosed blood vessel that allowed Aidan to live.

What he read made him put his coffee aside and run his hands through his hair. His eyes were glued to the screen.

_Surgical treatment of HLHS involves either transplantation or staged palliation of the native heart. If a donor is available within one month of being listed, transplantation is the optimal choice. If no donor is found, proceed with stage 1 surgery. Waiting on the transplant list for three months or longer increases mortality rates to 30% or above._

Now Dean understood why Richard was so upset. Aidan was going to die if he didn't get a new heart. It was that simple.


	4. Pork Chops be Damned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aidan moves in with Dean and Richard. Drama ensues.

"So… he's dying," Dean told Adam, as his friend sat aside his toast. "Last week he was going to auditions and yesterday he got the worst news ever."

Adam stopped fussing with his ketchup and turned to Dean. "Oh, but that's horrible. You mean, Richard's friend Aidan? The actor? That's... wow. Imagine being told you're dying. But is there, you know, a way out? Can he get better? Surgery?"

"That's why I'm such a horrible person, Ads." Dean pushed his breakfast plate away, a pile of eggs uneaten. "All I can think about is how this is yet _another_ way in which Aidan's going to come between me and Richard."

"Well, there is an upside," Adam raised one eyebrow and squeezed Dean's hand.

"What's that?"

"If Aidan doesn't get that transplant, you won't have to worry about him coming between you two much longer." Adam took a good bite from his toast and quirked an eyebrow. "I hate to say it, but I'm right, am I not?"

Dean chuckled bitterly. "You're right. Adam, you know I don't _hate_ Aidan, right? I just... sometimes I really just resent him. And to resent a dying person—well, that makes me a downright piece of shit, doesn't it?"

Adam shrugged over his glass of orange juice. "Honey, that man has been all over your guy every time I saw them in the same room. Doesn't mean you want him dead, but I bet I'd feel frustrated if I were you and about to live with him twenty-four seven. It's natural. Still, it's a pity. He's hot."

"He's all right," Dean wrinkled his forehead, "but I wouldn't recommend setting your sights on him Adam—even if he did get a transplant. He's not into commitment." 

Dean grew quiet when the waiter approached and freshened his coffee. "Thanks," he smiled his direction, then turned back to Adam. "Do you think they've... _you know_..." he wondered. "I trust Richard. Of course I do. It's Aidan that concerns me. Do you think Richard would be able to say no if Aidan came onto him? Especially now?"

"You think he would?" When Adam looked at his friend, he saw his insecurity. Which was odd for Dean. "Frankly, if Aidan wanted it, he would have tried it already, don't you think? But you're right, he might never get the chance again. I don't know, Dean. Don't ask me this stuff. It'll only make you feel worse."

"I don't think I _could_ feel worse, Adam." Dean poured a small bit of cream into his coffee and stirred it moodily. "I'm jealous of someone who is dying. I'm resenting him moving into my house... my _studio_. I'm afraid he'd fuck my husband, given the opportunity. I am going to hell," he concluded glumly. "I need to fix my attitude about this, and pronto."

And Dean did. 

At least, he tried.

That afternoon while Richard was teaching class, Dean began cleaning out his studio and moving only those items essential for the next few month's work into the smaller upstairs bedroom that would serve as his temporary workspace. The light wasn't as good there, he lamented, each time he entered the room. 

As he cleaned, he did manage to get rid of a bunch of old paint and materials he'd been saving for no good reason. This move was a good thing, he thought to himself. And Aidan wouldn't have to be alone.

When at last Richard came home, he found Dean seated on the floor of his studio looking through an old sketchbook.

Half of the studio was empty; what was left was a mess in pressing need of vacuuming. Like each move he and Dean had been through though, there would come a time when they'd stumble upon something forgotten, and their plans were curtailed. They hadn't moved in years. He thought of the memory of Dean, covered in smears of white paint after painting a door. Those had been good times. Trying times, every now and then, but good.

"Evening," he smiled and kissed him. "You've been busy today." Another peck. "Can I get you a coffee?"

Dean looked up at him, eyes a bit red from what had obviously been a bout of crying. "Look what I found," he whispered, handing Richard the sketchbook.

It was open to a page showing a drawing of Richard lying naked on his side. Dean had drawn him in that particular pose the day they had moved into the townhouse together, many years prior. "You haven't aged a day," Dean smiled gently. 

Richard turned his head to look at the sketchbook. He remembered. It had been so long ago. The idea of being drawn naked had been both intimate and intimidating at the same time. Dean had been so serious that Richard had soon eased into it. But the moment the drawing was done, he had taken the sketchbook out of his hands and drawn Dean into bed, and they had laughed and done so many other things that night.

"I remember what came after. I've aged years," he said fondly, before crouching down in front of his partner. "Are you all right? Do you need a hand with this?"

"No," Dean sat the book aside. "I'm just... well, I found a lot of dust," he blushed, "and good memories. I can't stop thinking about Aidan. How he must be feeling right now. And selfishly, looking at these drawings, all I can think of how much my heart would be breaking if it were _you_ who needed a heart. I'd open my chest and give you my own. My heart will always be yours." He reached out, brushing a stray dark hair from Richard's forehead.

"And mine yours." Richard leaned his chin against Dean's hand, reaching for his free one. "Come. We can continue this tomorrow. I don't want to think of you giving up your life for me, love. You're too important." He pulled Dean up with him, carefully placing the sketchbook aside. "What I'm thinking is that you could do with a hot shower for two, a cup of coffee, and maybe a good massage. How about it?"

He had so many things to talk about. Throughout the day, Richard had spoken with several connections at work about Aidan. He had absorbed a great deal of information, what best to do, and was brimming with ideas to get Aidan a new heart. But one look at Dean told him that he needed to put that aside for now. Dean wasn't doing well. Whatever the reason, Richard couldn't ignore that.

"Shower first?" Dean asked, eyes searching Richard's face. "I don't mind so much if we skip the coffee and massage." Their master bedroom had a large, powerful multi-head shower—where they and several of their friends could get clean all at once, if they so desired. "And you can tell me about your day."

"Maybe later." Richard led him up the stairs. He shed his coat on the bed, stepped out of his dress pants and undid his oxford. He didn't want to tell about his day—or rather, he wanted to tell him everything, but now was not the time.

He got the water at the right temperature, stepped in, and waited for Dean to join him. As soon as he did, Richard tugged him closer and kissed him. His long hours at work, combined with Dean's irregular ones, meant that they didn't do this nearly as much as he would like to. "Are you positive about that massage?" asked he. "I never specified that it had to be a back massage."

"You know," Dean nibbled on the underside of Richard's jaw, "when your long-neglected husband is dropping hints about wanting to get you between the sheets as quickly as possible... it's bad manners to procrastinate." He gave Richard's jaw one last playful lick, then lowered himself to his knees and took Richard's cock into his mouth in one smooth, practiced motion.

Not seeing that coming, Richard stumbled before uprighting himself against the tiles. Long ago, they had ordered that shower custom built to fit their needs. The flooring wasn't rough on Dean's knees, and neither was it slippery. 

The builders had awkwardly refrained from commenting on it; they undoubtedly knew.

His fingers slithered between short curls and caressed his jaw. Richard let out a pleasured sigh. "Never procrastinate," he said absently. "God, Dean, that feels so good. I was about to offer to pose for you again, but this..."

"Mmmhmm," Dean pulled off slowly and smiled up at him. "After? In the same pose, so I can prove to you that you really haven't aged?"

Before Richard could respond, Dean continued with his blow job, hand splayed possessively over the cheeks of Richard's ass. 

And Richard, well, Richard was losing his words faster than he could speak them. His knees bent a little, his back and head resting against the heated tiles. Everything else disappeared for a while, which made his head pleasantly empty and his body more receptive of Dean's tongue doing sinful things down below.

He tried to last a while, but eventually he signaled his husband with a small tap of his hand, breathless.

Shaking his head gently no, Dean refused him with his mouth full, hollowing his cheeks and doubling his efforts. It wasn't long before Richard came with a gasp, long fingers curling on Dean's shoulders. 

"There now," Dean allowed Richard to help him to his feet. "A proper greeting for the professor... and the little professor." He ran one finger over Richard's deflating dick, and kissed him.

A throaty laugh escaped Richard. "I don't think there's enough brain in the little professor to qualify as having a title," he said. "Though he is quite educated." He kissed back, not realizing until that moment how much he had needed it. Him. There wouldn't come a day he'd ever get tired of this. "God, I love you so much." He licked one of his fingers suggestively, "Now, if you would be so kind as to turn around for me?"

"I feel certain we could still teach him a few things," Dean gave Richard a half smile and turned his back on him, steadying himself with a hand on Richard's hip.

Richard wouldn't be surprised if they could, but not tonight. He reached for one of the bottles of oil from the shower caddy, spread some on his hands and webbed out his fingers against Dean's shoulder blades. What he found was taut muscle, flexing under his touch. He sighed, leaned his weight against his husband and kissed his ear. "You're tense."

The massage was not designed to unravel that, for soon one slick hand moved to Dean's front and took his member in hand, while the other kneaded his ass, ever so slowly tracing the curves further inward. Richard could never get enough of this. He fondled the man's balls, returned to his erection, and started kissing him in all the places that mattered.

Dean's head fell back onto Richard's shoulder and he relished in the display of possession with his eyes closed. This shower was a place of escape for both of them—whether alone or together—and had been for years. He kept trying to steady his breaths—in, out, in, out—yet still, even with Richard's reassuring hands on him, he couldn't stem the rising panic. 

"I—I'm sorry," he whispered, when his cock failed to harden in Richard's grip. "It's not you. I can't stop thinking about Aidan. Love me, Richard. Please," he begged, arching back into him.

Alarmed, Richard let go of the idea of pleasuring Dean sexually, and wrapped both arms solidly around his waist. He was here for him, no matter how long it took. He wasn't letting go until Dean knew how much he cared. "Hey, don't apologize for that, it happens. Is that what has been bothering you? Aidan?"

"It's stupid," Dean murmured into his ear over the sound of the pulsing water. "We can't control it. We didn't cause it. And yet ever since you told me, all I can think about is how scared I am to lose _you_. As if, I never even thought about it until just now. I told you... it's stupid." He held Richard tighter. "And selfish. Me thinking about losing you when he's the one whose life is ebbing away. We have to try to help him. We _have_ to. When I speak, before the next exhibit, I'll bring it up. We'll try to raise some awareness that way. I—I don't know what else I can do."

Richard only hugged him tighter. To know that Dean had been afraid of losing him hit home, especially with Aidan's chances already slim at best. "I need you with me," whispered he. "I can't do this alone. If I'd lose you too... oh Dean, don't say such things. I can't even begin to think of what I'd do if what's happening to Aidan was happening to you instead. I—no. We'll make it through this. We'll do everything we can for Aidan. Together. It's not too late. As long as he's still with us, we can still try. And if we truly can't find a heart for him, then we'll make sure he doesn't wither away in this dreadful illness but has at least some quality of life."

"You are _never_ going to lose me," Dean assured him, voice fierce. "You're my reason for everything."

He reached over to turn off the water, then began drying Richard's hair with a towel. Gentle ministrations turned into passionate reassurances—and this time, when Richard began rubbing him in all the right place, Dean's body responded and pulled him into their bed.

\- - - - - 

Three days later, Dean fidgeted nervously with the new quilt on the bed in Aidan's room. With the help of several of their friends, they cleaned out Aidan's apartment and moved nearly all his belongings into the former studio. It fit remarkably well, with only a few items having to go into attic storage.

Dean's phone buzzed to life in his pocket. 

_Be there in three mins,_ promised the text from Richard.

Dean sat down at the kitchen table with his laptop open to Facebook and tried to appear as if his life weren't about to change completely.

Of course, it changed three minutes earlier than that. He received a notification of being tagged in a post. When he clicked on it, Aidan had uploaded a picture of the view from the passenger's seat of Richard's car, Richard on the right of the screen.

_Off to Richard and Dean for a while!_ the post said.

And then came the messages from friends, wishing him good luck or great fun, and telling him they'd definitely be dropping by sometime soon. Aidan, it turned out—not that it was surprising—had a _lot_ of friends. Apparently, close to none of them actually knew the real reason why he was moving out of his own apartment.

The doorbell rang. Richard had a key, so it could only be one person.

Wiping the palms of his suddenly sweating hands on his jeans, Dean went to the door and opened it. "Hi Aidan," he greeted the man, trying to capture the tone he'd use if Aidan were coming over for just another visit. "Do you have any bags I can help with?"

"Richard's got them," Aidan smiled. He offered Dean a hand in kindness, made no comment on the clammy palms, and did his best to sound respectful to Dean. Aidan was well aware that Dean wasn't happy about it. He wouldn't be happy about it, himself, were Dean to encroach upon his own territory.

So he waited for Dean to let him in. Behind him, Richard came carrying a suitcase and with two shoulder bags flung against his back. Richard had insisted that Aidan was not to carry that much. "Thanks," Aidan said to Dean, "for doing this for me. It means a lot." The smile reached his mouth and his nose, but it never quite touched his eyes. Aidan hoped Dean did not notice it—he was trying to be strong, but the stress of moving was taking its toll already.

"I hope you like your room," Dean told him, taking the duffels from Richard and leading Aidan to his former studio. "Bathroom's right across the hall."

Dean put the two bags on Aidan's bed and looked around at what had been his former studio. "I wouldn't mind rooming here myself," he told Aidan.

Aidan stared around the room. "I've never lived in anything this neat," he admitted. "It's gorgeous." They had obviously done their best, and not for the first time did Aidan doubt that moving in was the right thing to do. It was going to get messy eventually, if things didn't go according to plan. "It's—wow, thanks, both of you. If there's anything I can do... I could cook, do the dishes or something?"

If Aidan did remember that this room had been Dean's studio, he didn't mention it.

"We both enjoy cooking," Dean told him. "I do most of it since Richard's often away at work. I'd welcome help, of course. You won't be disturbed much—by me, I mean. I spend most of my time at home, but I'm usually working in my studio or on my computer. Maybe," Dean studied Aidan in the light, "you could sit for me. I'm doing an Egyptian series and need a good face for my Osiris."

Although he was about to say no, not all that interested in spending more awkward time with Dean than necessary, Aidan paused with his mouth around the "N—".

It would be a nice way to remain around. Even if they didn't find a heart—and Aidan liked to be optimistic, but he knew his chances weren't that high—he'd still be in Dean's portfolio. As such, he'd still be in Richard's life.

"Let me think about that," he nodded. "Again, thanks so much." Aidan turned to Richard; he wasn't just talking to Dean. He sat down, enjoying the springiness of the bed, and kicked off his shoes.

He had no idea what to say or do. He felt like something was expected of him, but really, he just wanted to lie down and get some rest.

"I was about to start dinner," Dean told him, standing idly by the doorway. "I hope you like pork chops with cinnamon and peaches. It's one of Richard's favorites. Is there anything you aren't supposed to eat? I should have asked, I guess. I'm sorry," 

"Oh. Well, technically, I'm sure they want me on water and greens. Just, no pizza or coffee. Nothing that's too greasy, which I suppose rules out chips as well. Nothing fried, for sure." Aidan looked at Richard. "Do you think pork chops would be a problem?"

"Well, they're baked," Dean bit his lip. "I think they're all right. Maybe we can sit down together when you have time and you can tell me if you have any restrictions. I'll write them down so I don't accidentally bring home the wrong things. Has it been tough," he wondered, "the not smoking? I know you really take pleasure in it."

Aidan winced, wishing Dean had not brought that up. "Clean for four days, and it's a hell. But hey, if it'll give me another few days, it'll be worth it." Buying for time was all that Aidan had. He found it funny, how Richard was mostly standing there with that look on his face that Aidan couldn't read, but which definitely floated somewhere between amused and concerned. It was one of the rare times he opted to have Dean share in a conversation with him, instead of himself.

Either way, he decided, he was going to be living with the both of them. It would be troublesome if he didn't get this barrier between them out of the way, or at least try. "Smoking is," he sighed, "god, I'd do anything for a fag right now. It's incredibly tough. But it'll be worth it, I think. Having this... _thing_ , it definitely changes your perspective on things. So." He sat up a little more straight. His chest was clearing up again. In seconds, he'd feel as good as he had always felt. "I bet you've got some rules, too. Shoot. Can I wear my shoes in the studio? At what time should I be quiet for the night? Do we take turns for laundry?"

"Um," Dean was taken aback by Aidan's request. "Well, no loud parties—unless we're invited, of course," he chuckled nervously. "Rich, help me out here."

Richard laughed. "I already told him in the car. Visitors are fine, but no parties."

"Like I would," interjected Aidan, offended that both of them expected him to throw weekly parties for people—like he had the money.

"Anyway," Richard smiled at him, "I think we'll just have to figure it out as we go, won't we? It'll be fine."

"I'm not worried," Dean said, and he really meant it. Well, mostly. "We have a pretty big place here," he told Aidan of the obvious. "We hope you'll make yourself at home. If there's anything you need, just let us know."

Aidan accepted the offer with gratitude. He sat on the bed and pulled his legs up. Perhaps Richard's crazy idea to have him stay with them like some geriatric patient would turn out quite all right in the end. "So, uh, is it okay if I take a small nap?" he asked, down at the bed, then up at Richard and Dean. "I know I've had plenty of time to sleep over the last couple of days, but I'm actually pretty tired."

"Yeah, of course," Dean told him. "Do you want us to wake you for dinner?"

Aidan checked with Richard quickly.

"Please. Uh, Dean? Is this—" he fumbled with the right words, "—is this going to be an everyday thing, or once or twice? You know, dinner?"

"I make dinner when I know Richard's going to be here... about four nights a week," Dean told him. "But with you here, I can do it every day. I work at home. It's not a big deal. I really do like to cook. I mean, unless you want more privacy."

_To not have to deal with me,_ the words implied.

Oh, Aidan understood him loud and clear. "...I might want some privacy, yes." He patted on his bed, feeling slightly elated to have to be asking Richard and Dean if they could leave him alone when this not at all felt like home yet.

Finally Richard understood and nudged Dean. "Come on, let's give him time to sleep. I took the rest of the day off. It's been a while since I've seen you cook." And he led the blond out of the room, closing the door with a last comforting look at Aidan after him.

Once they were alone and well over fifteen feet from Aidan's bedroom door, Dean turned to Richard expectantly. "That went all right, didn't it? I hope I didn't make him feel uncomfortable."

Richard kissed him on the cheek. "It's his first day out of his flat. It's natural. Trust me, he'll be okay in a day or two. I'm more concerned about him feeling too comfortable. Thanks, Dean. This means a lot to me. I know it's an adjustment."

Dean encircled Richard's waist with his arms. "It's not so bad," Dean told him. And it wasn't _so_ bad. At least, not yet. But Dean was still worried about what might happen if Aidan grew sicker. Instead he said, "I got some sugar snap peas from the market. They're so good I almost want to serve them raw. And the bread... well, I ate two slices on the way home. I hope Aidan doesn't feel smothered here."

"He's got his own room. And Aidan, smothered? Never. He loves being doted on."

They were both circling around the elephant in the room, which was that Aidan was here because he was sick—because he was going to be facing an endurance test that would take a lot from him. He couldn't go to work and earn money, nor was it safe to leave him alone when there were the temptations of an addiction and the dangers of something happening without anyone nearby.

Richard didn't want to think about the fact that in a few months, a lot would be very different. He installed himself on the barstool, leaning his chin on his hands and followed Dean around with his eyes. "Have I told you that I absolutely love seeing you cook?"

Dean broke out in a sunny smile and climbed onto Richard's lap, straddling him as the barstool protested noisily. "Mmm, the cooking we could do..." he whispered wetly in Richard's ear. "Pork chops be damned."

"Pork chops be damned," agreed Richard, before pulling him further up and leaning in to capture his lips. He easily worked his hands underneath Dean's shirt, fanning his fingers out against his lower back. A groan escaped him. "I should take a day off more often."

In the corner of the room, Aidan coughed and quickly tiptoed past. "Toilet," he whispered when Richard caught him. "Don't mind me."

"Let's go upstairs," Dean suggested.

\- - - - 

Aidan kept to himself, far more than Dean felt was healthy. He felt he should try to engage the man in conversation or _something,_ but to be honest it was easier not having to talk to Aidan. He never quite knew what to say. Dean felt like a terrible host.

Four days (and two awkward Richard-less dinners) later, Dean had a bit too much wine with his dinner. He dropped a plate when unloading the dishwasher. The crackle of shattering porcelain echoed through the house.

The unwanted side effect was it brought Aidan out of his room, his eyes bleary from sleep in the middle of the afternoon, in search of the noise. "Dean? Where are you? Everything all right?" His sock-padded feet muted his steps. It had to be the kitchen; it had sounded like something ceramic.

Dean chuckled. "I... I just dropped a plate. It's all right. I'm sorry if it scared you. My fingers are a bit... tingly," he confessed, swaying a bit where he stood. "Watch where you step!"

Aidan nodded and kept his eyes on the tiled floor. He wasn't awake and sound of mind enough to get his shoes, but he knew where the vacuum cleaner was kept, so he started walking back and disappeared on Dean without another word.

Some two minutes later, he came stumbling back with the thing and plugged it in. "Here." His feet shuffled across the floor to make sure he didn't step on anything, before he figured that keeping them off it altogether was probably better. Aidan hopped onto the counter. "Too much wine?"

Dean smiled. "A bit too much, yes. It happens sometimes—even to anal-retentive types like me."

The words left Dean's mouth before he could stop them. He had overheard Aidan telling Richard the other day that Dean was anal-retentive about the way he organized his things. "Thanks, by the way," he nodded to Aidan, using a broom to push the shards into a pile and a dustpan to clean up the largest of them. Then he ran the vacuum thoroughly over the area. "There. Should be safe to walk now. I am sorry I startled you, Aidan."

Aidan laughed to stave off the uncomfortable feeling at what was obvious a jab coming from Dean. "I'm okay. Look, sorry you heard that. It wasn't—I wasn't having a great day when I said that. I'm actually dying for a beer or a wine. And the—" he made a smoking gesture, "—you know. I'm also bloody bored. You don't, I don't know, have any fun things to do that aren't video games or books?"

"Listen," Dean hopped up onto the counter next to Aidan in an uncharacteristically forward manner, "and forgive me if I'm overstepping... but, why not? Why not drink if you want to? Or smoke? Or, hell, shoot heroin? I know you're read the statistics on available hearts. If I were you, I'd be doing whatever the hell I wanted, with whoever the hell I wanted—not hiding in that room waiting for Richard to come home from work every day."

Aidan shifted away from him. "Because you obviously have no idea what it's like. You think this is a vacation for me? That I'm here to freeload on you because I'm a lazy piece of shit? In case you haven't noticed, I am dying, and I'm doing everything I can to save myself a couple of days. I tried a cigarette when I left the hospital. Rich doesn't know. I think I was literally fucking choking. Don't say shit like that."

"I didn't say you were lazy, or freeloading," Dean frowned. "I just said that... well, that if I were dying, I'd want to make an impact before I went. Have you thought about that? I mean, any of us could keel over tomorrow. Don't you want to be part of something big? Build something? _Do_ something... have a presence in the world?"

"I _could_ write a book," Aidan thought aloud. It wasn't his thing, but it was one of the few activities that didn't require physical activity. Maybe. But first he could go for a walk. He needed to exercise his joints, anyway. "People with heart disease don't get to do everything they want. It's been a month since I got laid, do you know how awful that is? Not like I can go out and do something about it though. And Rich is so hopeful that he'll get me a heart in time. I'm not planning to fuck that up. Oh, speaking of which," he added in afterthought, "Mum and Dad are coming to see me tomorrow."

Lying flat on the counter—because why not?—Aidan closed his eyes and wondered. "But if I could do everything? No horrific physical consequences and all? I think I'd see the world. Jump out of a plane. Streak a Class A musical. Cool down on a hot day in a fountain at Trafalgar… run on the roofs."

"Okay, now we're talking," Dean grinned. "Why don't we plan a trip? I haven't taken a vacation in ages. I'm not sure what I can do about the getting laid thing. You'd probably think all my friends are repulsive."

"Oh, you seem to have your mind made up about my tastes. What is my type, then?" Aidan was teasing, but he was curious how flustered he could get Dean. "The Caribbean? Or plain old Cornwall?"

Flustered, mostly because he thought Aidan was asking him to posit about his taste in men, Dean leaned back on his hands to try to hide his embarrassment. "I couldn't begin to guess. You seem like the type of guy who enjoys a good pub crawl. But it would have to be somewhere cool. Like New Orleans, or Hong Kong."

"Yeah, but pub crawls are not allowed. Dr. Pace would have my head." He considered that, before chuckling, "Not in the good way."

"I wouldn't tell him," Dean nudged Aidan's calf with his foot. "I would totally encourage your debauchery. In fact—"

"What are you two up to?" Richard's voice interrupted Dean's suggestion. He'd entered the house so quietly that neither of them had heard.

"Just event planning," Dean smiled. "Thinking about a vacation for Aidan."

Aidan tilted his head back to get the general direction of his friend. He waved when he did, deciding he was too comfortable to be getting up. "Hi! Actually, Dean is suggesting all sorts of nasty things he thinks I should do. Drugs, hookers—you know, _vile stuff_. But I think a holiday is pretty family-safe. Hey," he pointed out to Dean, "I bet you could get a discount with me. One of those Make-A-Wish things."

Dean chuckled.

"Aidan..." As always, Richard took his illness more seriously than Aidan wanted him to take it.

"It's fun though. Even if it's just a hotel a couple of blocks away."

"I never mentioned hookers," Dean interjected, punctuated by a loud hiccup. "But, if you're interested... money is no object."

"Oh my god!" Aidan laughed, incredulous. "Will you stop that?!" He covered his eyes with his palms. It was beginning to get ridiculous, as it was already highly embarrassing. Dean had to have an image of him that screamed 'cheap and loose'. To Richard, he added, "As you can see, your husband's quality time with a bottle of red has made him unfortunately lippy."

Richard cringed. "Why is there glass on the floor?"

"Oh. That. Well." Aidan wriggled his toes above the counter. "I guess now you know why I'm up here."

"Wait a minute!" Dean hopped down to the floor. "I swept and vacuumed. There shouldn't be any left."

He blushed sheepishly when Richard pointed out a shard close to his toe.

"I was thirsty," Dean offered in his defense. "And it was one of those cheap plates your parent bought us."

Richard cupped his cheeks with both hands. "I don't care, love. We'll buy new ones." He picked up the shard, deposited it in the bin, and smiled over his shoulder. "So this is what you do when I'm out of the house. Fair enough, I really need to be home more often. So that holiday you were talking about... you're sure it's okay if we stick to London?"

"One hundred percent!" Aidan beat Dean to it.

"Then you'd best start researching," Dean told Aidan over his shoulder. "I have to finish the Osiris before we can go, though. It'd go a hell of a lot faster if I had a hot semi-Egyptian looking fellow with dark skin and long hair to model for me. Wonder where I could find one..."

Instead of responding to Dean, Aidan nudged Richard in the side with his foot. "I thought you said he had perfect manners? I've heard him proposition me the strangest stuff, and now I think he's calling me hot."

It was too easy to mess with Dean. But all Aidan was trying to do was break the ice.

Instead of huffing angrily, Dean rolled his head in Aidan’s direction. "So you'll do it, then?" he surmised. "I should mention, there is eyeliner involved."

"I should hope there is!" Aidan grinned. For once he didn't feel like fleeing the room in Dean's presence. Perhaps it was because Richard was there. They never had trouble spending time together if Richard was around to turn to for backup. It was the times when he was not that proved to be trying. "Tomorrow?"

Aidan sat up decently at last, stretched his pajama-bottomed legs and inspected the floor quickly before hopping off the counter. That turned out to be a wrong move reminding him that he was not here to pose and have fun. Since his collapse at the café, the intervals had continued to grow shorter until they were now daily discomforts. He smoothed it over like a performer.

Both Dean and Richard felt compelled to say—or at least _do_ —something to help or comfort him. But they had learned early on that Aidan, despite his love of being seen, was not grateful for that sort of attention.

After he'd given them a silly half wave and vanished into his room, Dean turned to Richard, fear in his eyes. "I hate that," he whispered.

"He refuses to let anyone in." Having reached for an orange juice to play along with the theatrics, Richard now went for the bottle of wine. "I've talked to him about it, but he lies to my face when I ask him how he's doing. He never lies to me, Dean. I think he's having more trouble with it than he wants us to believe."

Dead nodded. He didn't know Aidan nearly as well as Richard did, but it was obvious even to him that Aidan was pretending things were all right when he was really feeling quite poorly.

"Is he going to feel like this all the time—until the end? Is he going to have no good days at all?" Dean asked sadly.

"Please don't talk about there being an end," Richard winced. "I'm doing my best. He is trying hard. We'll make it work." He rubbed his nose bridge. "That holiday... book something. I need to see him laugh and mean it."

"Anything?" Dean raised an eyebrow. Richard knew Dean had a passion for castles and ruins, but that Aidan surely didn't have the energy to trek around them. He could see the wheels turning behind Dean's blue eyes, more so than usual. When he drank, Dean was an open book.

"What about St. Ives?" Dean wondered. "Summer's nearly here. We could relax on the beach all day, take the railway ride and eat piles and piles of seafood every night!"

"Book it," said Richard. "I'll talk to Dr. Pace about it." He felt weak, standing there considering that Aidan might not be around him for much longer. "There are so many things I still want him to do," he whispered. "I planned to get him to read Keats. He always talked about making it big. He said, eventually he'd find someone he would want to grow old with like you and me. It's—I'm not ready to see him lose his dreams."

At Richard's declaration that he wanted to grow old with Dean, Dean drew him into his arms and hugged him tightly.

"I'm not sure we should, or _could_ , make him to do anything," Dean said quietly. "But if there is anything he wants, we need to make sure he gets it. All right?"

"All right." Pulling him closer against himself, Richard did not let go of Dean for a long while. Finally he sighed out and collected himself. "First of all, I think he doesn't want us to feel like this. Have you had dinner yet? We could go out for dinner if not. He needs to get out of the house, and I personally could do with some fresh air."

"I had something ready to cook, I swear," Dean grinned. "Then, I found the wine and all bets were off. Let's see if he’ll go out with us. But, promise me... you won't try to make him read Keats. No one should be subjected to that sort of torture."

Richard chuckled and kissed his cheek. Dean had always had a strong opinion about his reading preferences. Aidan in comparison was much more open to try out something new. "We'll see about that. Book the trip? I'll check if he wants to go."

"I will," Dean poked him in the stomach. "I'm hope you're okay with us staying in two rooms. And I hope you'll be sleeping in mine." 

He gave Richard a mysterious smile and walked away towards his laptop.

Richard chased after him to smack him playfully on the ass, then went to the studio door and knocked.


	5. If it's the Last Thing I Ever Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean books a holiday in an effort to raise Aidan's spirits. Aidan's parents come to visit.

Richard turned and knocked on Aidan's door. "Aid?" he called, "Can I come in?"

From the room came a definite snort. "Since when do you ask?" Richard knew what face Aidan was carrying before he opened the door. He did not expect him to be lying flat on the bed, his breathing hoarse but under control.

Richard slipped the door shut with a soft _snick_ and sat on the edge of Aidan's bed by his hip.

"Dean's out there now booking us a trip to the seaside," Richard smiled warmly, squeezing Aidan's hand. "A week away will do us all good. Have you been to St. Ives?"

"Cornwall is it?" asked Aidan. "You know, when I said it, I meant it as a joke. But sure. Sure. It'll be nice to go away for a few days." He felt like a patient instead of a person and doing his best to get back to where he had been before. "Hey, does Dean do that a lot? You know, get shitfaced in the middle of the day? Because he's an artist or something?"

"Can I tell you a secret?" Richard lay down on his back next to Aidan, their heads sharing the shame pillow. "He's worried about you, and he's not very good at expressing his concern. This made it easier for him. That, and he's lucky enough to work from home, so he can pretty much drink indiscriminately. But that's beside the point."

Aidan thought that over. "Can I tell you a secret in return?" he asked. It was not something that he liked to talk about, but he needed it said now, or it might not be said ever. "I never know what to talk about with him. He must be an awesome person, since you've married him. But I've got a hard time finding common ground with him. Talk to me about him. You know both of us, so..."

"I hated him when we met," Richard confessed, smiling gently, "and he hated me back with equal passion. I was his professor. I was still very new at it myself, but I'd never run into a student so argumentative. He'd taken my course to fulfill one of his required literature courses. But he it made it very clear from the get-go that he was only there because he had to be."

Richard chuckled and went on. "He hated the reading. Or, I should say, he hated what I had them reading. I must admit, I found him beautiful even then—when we loathed one another. I had fantasies of taking him on a picnic and reading him poetry with his head on my lap. Dreadful, I know. But I was smitten. He was too, as it turned out. He started reading what I assigned quite diligently, only to have animated discussions about it in class. That's how it all started. He was stubborn, and wanted only to work on his art. I was stubborn and wanted him to see there was more to life. In the end, those discussions turned into dinner, which turned into.... well, into more."

Aidan had a dreamy curve around his lips, his eyes closed. He understood quite well that Dean had provoked Richard into talking more in class—he had a nice voice to listen to. "Must have been nice," said he, "So what did you talk about, other than him bashing poetry?"

Aidan had been in love several times. He couldn't remember what they had talked about, because there was always something better to do until it was—invariably—over, a few months down the line. To have been in love with someone for so long, he had no idea what it took. "Did you model for him?"

"He didn't mind the poetry so much," Richard told Aidan. "It was the fiction he loathed. He hated Chaucer with a passion—even the risqué bits. But it grew on him, of course, as I did. He's not like the other artists I've met—although I will admit my exposure is limited. He seems aloof sometimes because his parents travelled a great deal and he and he brother were often left alone for long periods. Of course, it was that same time alone that gave him over to his art, so it was all for the best.

"As far as modeling," Richard huffed, but more from his own shyness than annoyance. "Unofficially, no. But there are limited edition drawings of me to be found."

The grin on Aidan grew wider, his eyes peeking open. He knew Richard and Dean well enough to come to one prominent conclusion. "Like nudes?"

"Uh huh," Richard purred. "He tried to have me draw him, but it was... disastrous. Naked stick figures. But I've written him many a poem. And those," he raised an admonishing finger to stave off further questions, "shall remain private as well. "What about you, Aidan?" Richard asked at length.

"Never posed naked, never written saucy poems," replied Aidan like he was both proud of that and felt like he had missed out on the chance. Still, the idea that Richard had written private poems made him smile. "I—oh, Christ. Mum and Dad! I can't pose as the Egyptian bloke or go on a holiday. They'll be here tomorrow!"

"Ah yes," Richard nodded. "I'd quite forgotten. How long do you think they'll stay in town?"

 _Do you think they'll try to take you home with them?_ was Richard's unspoken question.

"Uh. Well. I don't know. You know Mum. She can be persistent. I don't even know where they’re staying, to be honest. She didn't specify, so I thought she'd ask you. She didn't, did she?"

Aidan didn't know whether his parents taking him along would be so bad. Except if it was up to him, he'd prefer London and the company of someone who could make him laugh. Maybe see that handsome doctor again once or twice.

"We do have another spare bedroom," Rich began. "It's more of an office, really. I... well, we don't have an actual bed in it anymore...."

Aidan nudged him. "It's okay. I'll get them a hotel room in the neighborhood. I like them coming by, you know. It's just, she's going to cry like I'm already dead. I have no intention of dying, but she's always been a bit dramatic. Even if she doesn't say it, I'll be able to tell she is thinking about it."

"You'll always be her little boy," Richard said softly. "Always. Try to be kind to them, Aidan."

"Of course I will." Why wouldn't he? "They're Mum and Dad. Anyway, we'll just see how it goes with them. If I'm feeling off, can you help out and tell them I needed to take a piss or anything?"

Aidan rolled onto his side. It wasn't as comfortable that way, but he wanted to look at his friend. "How's it going at work?"

"Things are fine at the university," Richard insisted. "I'm told they want to add another course to my schedule next fall. Truth be told, I've considered taking a sabbatical."

"...Because you want to be here more often. Rich, don't do that."

"I want to spend time with you, Aidan. Is that so wrong?"

"Not if it's just a few days off. But let's face it; if nothing changes, I'm dying. You'll eventually be watching me get worse every hour of the day." It hurt Aidan to admit it. He wished he could be selfish and have Richard around whenever he wanted. But if he didn't make it, this would be the way Richard remembered him.

"Listen," Richard leaned in and kissed him on the forehead, "I'm letting you do what you wish with your time. Surely you can allow me the same luxury. Now, get dressed. Dean and I are taking you out for dinner. We can talk about our ocean trip too. All right?"

"Fair enough."

Although he wasn't fast, Aidan got dressed as soon as Richard left the room. He wasn't moving a lot these days, but instead of turning pudgy like he ought to, he was only getting thinner. To cover that up, he selected his clothing carefully, messed up his hair to stop it looking pillow-pressed flat and pulled himself together.

Richard had, in not so many words, told him off. He hadn't accepted Aidan's reasons. Aidan would have taken it the wrong way from anyone else; only Richard could make it sound like Aidan was trying to make Richard see him as deficient, and that he was wrong. It made him want to do his best not to be that person he was afraid he was becoming as long as he could.

They ended up at a grilled steak restaurant. "You're fucking wicked," he muttered to Richard and Dean under his breath, "I'm pretty sure I can't eat anything on the menu."

"Eat whatever the hell you want," Dean encouraged him, sipping from his water glass, "honestly."

Richard gave him a scolding look, yet smiled. "Truly, Aidan. I think I probably would too. We won't tell Dr. Pace."

Aidan needed not be told again. He picked the biggest, juiciest steak on the menu when the waiter asked for his choice, and had it dressed in a rich mushroom cream sauce. Fries would probably be pushing it. "I feel like a kid at a McDonald's," he admitted when it was just them again. For once he wasn't wearing his usual shabby clothes. Nobody would look at him and think he was ill that night. He fairly roughly kicked Dean under the table, all in good humor. "Did you book? Are we going to Cornwall?"

"First two weeks of June," Dean told him. "As soon as Richard finishes out the term. I hope you don't mind two full weeks at the beach. I found an incredible hotel with balconies and jacuzzis in each room. I wish we could leave tomorrow. I can almost smell the briny air. Can you?" He reached for Richard's hand and squeezed it. "This one really needs a vacation," he canted his head in Richard's direction.

But Aidan got a lump in his throat. June? June, which was four months away. He was on a list to get a new heart, and Dean had booked them a vacation in June?!

Well, that quickly reinstated that Dean was a dick. Aidan took a drink from his water and tried to smile. "Yes he does."

Dean watched as Aidan's face fell. It was nearly imperceptible, but not many observed people as intently as Dean did. He knew what Aidan was thinking; _I'm not going to live that long._

But the scheduling was done with the intention of ensuring just that.

"When we get home," Dean speared a perfectly grilled shrimp with a fork, and smiled at Aidan, "I'll show you the hotel I picked. You're going to love it."

"I'm sure I will," Aidan replied blandly, cutting into his meat a little more roughly than he needed to.

Dean's hands nervously went to the napkin on his lap, folding and unfolding it. "I wonder if we could get some more wine," he murmured. "I've hear the Moscato here is very good."

No one noticed the sudden drop in temperature more than Richard. "Well, I for one," he raised a hand to flag down their server, "can't wait to sink my toes into the sand. Could we get a bottle of Moscato?" he asked the young man. "Do you want a drink, Aidan?"

"A pint, please." Aidan challenged them to say no. He was about to indulge himself tonight, so that the bitterness of a vacation that he needed _right now_ —and was, as such, practically Dean and Richard planning their own private holiday while telling him that hey, if he had made it that far, they wouldn't mind if he came along—would be softened at least.

Despite his medical rebelliousness, the taste of good red meat made him feel better. He hadn't eaten decent food—the kind of decent that made dietitians curl their toes—in weeks. Within a minute, he had forgotten about the holiday and was focused solely on making sure he tasted every drop of the sauce, trying not to push it so that he wouldn't overload his system, and enjoying being out.

Although he wouldn't say it, he was thankful Richard and Dean had taken him here.

Seeing Aidan relax a little helped Dean calm down a bit too. It seemed that no matter what he did, Aidan was destined to dislike him. They would never be friends; that was painfully obvious. And did it really matter?

Thankfully, Aidan would be with his parents in the upcoming days, and there would be less pressure on Dean to entertain him.

His meal didn't taste quite as good after that, but he ate nearly all of it, and polished off the wine that Richard didn't finish. With a very full stomach and a swimming head, Dean sat in the passenger seat as Richard drove them back to the townhouse they shared.

"I still want you to model for me, Aidan," Dean reminded him. "If you can't actually sit for me, can I at least take some photos of you... maybe tomorrow after you've spent the day with your folks?"

Aidan turned in the doorway to the studio. "I'll sit for you. It's only a few hours, isn't it? I told you I'd do it, so I'll do it. Just make sure the room is on temperature, if you expect little to no clothing." He cast a quick impish smile at Richard, who knew immediately what he was referring to.

When Richard turned to Dean, his eyes were wide. "I—I..." Dean stammered. "Of course I want you in clothing!" he called after Aidan. "He's got some crazy ideas," he told Richard. "I don't know why he thought—" but he ceased speaking when Richard kissed him quiet.

\- - - - -

Aidan's parents were early. At nine exactly in the morning did they ring the doorbell—a time at which Aidan, who knew their habits, was up and expecting them while he waited in the living room. They made comments about the size of the house, they offered Richard and Dean their continuous polite thanks, but most of all, they smothered Aidan with attention to the point where, at ten, he was already retreating back into his makeshift bedroom with excuses of 'needing a shower' and, just after lunch, 'I am a bit tired, just a small nap'.

Which meant that Richard and Dean ended up the ones spending most of the time with Aidan's parents.

"Tell me the truth," his mother finally sighed, clutching her cup of tea in her palms, "how is he doing? He's avoiding us, isn't he?"

Dean gave Richard a surreptitious, stricken look. He had no idea what to say. "Let me freshen your mugs," he offered instead, pouring each a bit more hot tea.

"You know your son far better than we could ever hope to," Richard told them. "He's rallying. That's for sure. But I feel certain he's keeping plenty from us. He sleeps often. The doctor said it's to be expected. His heart's not pumping as much oxygen as he needs, so he's often tired. I'm sorry, I wish I could tell you more. I can tell you that he's being given every opportunity to do whatever it is he wants to do."

Dean nodded in affirmation. "We've planned a vacation to Cornwall in June as well."

"Shouldn't you be taking him now?" asked Aidan's mother. She glanced at the door to her son's new bedroom. "He doesn't have to stay here. I would love for him to go with us and stay at home. We hardly see enough of him as it is, Mr. Armitage, and it wouldn't cost you all the expenses like food and rent."

"Nothing would make me happier than to have Aidan stay here with us," Richard said. And he meant it. “But I will abide by his wishes.”

"The vacation's been scheduled down the road a bit for two reasons," Dean added. "Richard can't get away from the university until the first week of June. And we want Aidan to have something to look forward to."

Knowing how close Richard and Aidan were, she accepted his reply despite understanding that it would mean she'd get to see her son less. "Could you make me a promise?" She turned her coaster over, intent on having something to do with her hands. "Can you get him to call me? Or over the Internet? One of my neighbors talks to her kids through some program on the Internet. I'd like that. He's my son, Mr. Armitage. I understand he doesn't want me to treat him like he is, but it doesn't change that I want to see him more often than I do now. I don't know how much longer I still can."

Her lower lip quivered, and her hands gripped the coaster. She reprimanded herself, sighed as if annoyed with herself, and drew up a smile, faint as it was. Richard and Dean could see where Aidan had gotten that from.

"Mom," Aidan whispered from the door. He had been listening—of course he had. He couldn't sleep, knowing they were talking about him. And what else would they talk about now? He stepped aside. Aidan looked frail in his pajamas, sporting bags under his eyes. "Come in for a bit?"

Aidan's father — Danny, he had insisted they call him — watched sadly after his wife's retreating form. 

"Aidan and I were close when he was a young boy," he told the two men, "but then we grew apart. His mother was happier for that. It gave them more time together. When he decided to move to London, she was devastated. And now this," he looked down at the nearly empty mug in his hand. "Are you sure there is nothing that can be done, short of a transplant?"

Richard shook his head sadly. "That's what the doctors tell him."

"I'd give him my heart if I could," Danny sat the tea aside, "for the happiness of his mother and him."

Richard turned and shared a long look with Dean. But they had no right to ask, let alone express how they felt about it. It was a man's life. None was more important than the other. "Only a transplant can save him," Richard quietly said. "They could start a procedure they call palliation, but that is not a cure. It will only relieve his pain and some of the discomfort. He's got a better spot on the donor list now. We have to hope that it will be in time."

"Anything's possible," Danny looked sadly out towards the evening sunset. "He got sick by dumb luck. He could be just as lucky and get a heart."

"We'll take care of him," Dean promised Aidan's father, squeezing the man's hand with his own. "I promise. He won't be lonely."

The streak to feign strength seemed genetic and typical only to Aidan and his mother, with Danny shaking his head when they both exited the studio-turned-into-bedroom with red-rimmed eyes and yet smiles. "They're staying over for dinner, if that's all right," Aidan asked Richard. "I'll sit for Dean as promised. I'd like them to stay a few days. Mom knows I'll be sleeping a lot, and that I've got things to do, but I want—I'd like them here. Is that okay? She'll beat the hell out of me if I go for a smoke, she promised."

"They could sleep in our bed," Dean told Aidan. "It's no motel, but they'd be together, and they'd be with you. Richard and I could easily spend a few nights away. Would that be all right?" he asked his partner.

"Don't go," Aidan immediately stepped in. "Mom says she's okay with sleeping on the couch. I could make room in the studio. I don't want you away either. Besides," he scraped his throat, "Mum offered to make food for us all tonight, and Dad brought board games. It's—" well, it would be old-fashioned, but he wanted old-fashioned right now, "—it'll be fun."

And it was fun. The hopeful look on Angela Turner's face kept Dean and Richard from leaving. After a trip to the local grocery, Angela made a huge meal of intricate stew with lamb and popovers. They played Cluedo and Monopoly and Jenga (all but Aidan more than a little drunk) well into the night.

It was Richard who wound up tucking Aidan into his bed at two in the morning.

"That was fun," he leaned down and kissed Aidan's forehead. "Your parents are delightful people."

"They are," admitted Aidan, who hadn't wanted them to worry about him, but whose company had made him feel warm at heart nonetheless. He kissed Richard's chin, because it seemed a funny thing to do. He was exhausted, and it made him equally unstable as his inebriated fellows. "Tell Dean I'll sit for him tomorrow?"

"You know, Aidan," Richard smoothed an unruly curl back from Aidan's brow, "you don't have to do that if you don't want to. Dean won't be upset."

"I gave my word. I will do it." Aidan closed his eyes, always one to enjoy Richard's many variations of physical attention. "You'll have to forgive me if I try to make him uncomfortable. He is fun to embarrass."

Richard chuckled. "You're right about that. I suppose I'll leave you both to it, then. He's right, you know. Osiris needs to have your face."

"I've looked him up on Wikipedia." Aidan didn't want Richard to go, although they were both tired. "Osiris I mean, not Dean. King of the Dead, did you know? But King of the Living as well. Funny, that."

"King of Everything," Richard agreed, a tremble in his voice. "I love you Aidan. You know that right? You have so many people who love you."

"Only a few who really do, I think," smiled Aidan. "But I consider myself blessed with every one of them. I love you too, Rich. Even when you're quoting sodding Keats, I love you most of all."

The sound of Richard swallowing back tears seemed deafening in the quiet room. "I will find you a heart, Aidan," he promised his friend. "If the last thing I ever do."

"Just be here," Aidan tapped Richard's nose, before touching his own heart, "and here. Now go sleep, idiot best friend of mine. There's a man in your bed who is no doubt waiting for you."

Richard's heart stuttered in his chest. Aidan's dark eyes shone like burning coals in the dark. There was so much he wanted to say—so much he wanted to do. Instead, he leaned over and kissed him one more time, on the cheek, for good measure. "Go easy on Dean tomorrow," he reminded Aidan. "He's going to be far more nervous than you are. But he's got a kind heart, and he wants to be your friend. All right?"

Although that didn't match Aidan's image of Dean in his mind, he accepted. "All right. Now go, before he starts thinking funny things."

The truth was, Aidan had wanted Richard once. When they had just met, he had entertained vivid thoughts about him, every next one more impossible than the one before. He had kindled that hope for several months. That was until he finally met Dean, and saw how much Richard loved him. It was in every little gesture.

Although it had made Aidan envy Dean, he knew he couldn't take that away. It was not something in which Aidan could replace Dean; Richard's love was inherently tied to Dean for who he was. And Aidan hadn't even been sure it was love he had to offer. The only thing he could have done was break two people's hearts for one that wasn't sure of itself.

Odd how such a start had ended them here like this. Best friends, no hidden layers beneath. He would never tell, because it did not matter.

Aidan pulled up his covers and closed his eyes, as if mock-dismissing his friend. "Goodnight, Rich," smiled he.

Richard patted his shoulder once, twice. The second touch lingered. Then he was gone.

Danny and Angela were settling down into their respective sleeping places. They had turned down the offer to sleep in Dean and Richard's room. When Richard slipped into bed, Dean sat aside his Kindle, and took off his reading glasses.

"Is everything all right then?" he asked.

Richard stole a kiss, longer than an affectionate peck but not quite a prelude to something else. "When I'm back at work on Monday, I am going to do everything in my power to find him a heart. As soon as we can find him one, we have to. I won't let him go."

"I love you," Dean told him. "You are a wonderful, wonderful man. We're both so lucky to have you." There wasn't much else to be said. "Come, lie with me."

They moved easily into an embrace comfortable for them both. Richard gathered Dean close against him. He longed to speak of something else, something that did not entail skirting around the possibility of something ending. "He says he shall pose for you tomorrow. I'm afraid he's got his mind made up about making it harder on you because he thinks you are funny when you're embarrassed. We could try to get him back for that."

"I'm growing used to letting him make me feel uncomfortable," Dean chuckled, fingers drawing lines on Richard's chest. "I know it makes him happy. God knows he needs to smile. If it's to be at my expense, so be it."

He was quiet for a few moments, simply listening to Richard's heart beat under his ear.

"Do you believe," Dean asked finally, "that he'll still be around for our trip to Cornwall?"

"One hundred percent. I'm going to give it my all to get him a new heart. I won't allow myself to fail, Dean. If I have to appear on national television to plead for his case, I will do so. If I can convince people to become a donor, not only might I help him, but I could help others in the future." Richard was convinced of that. He was not often this determined.

A fond kiss was followed by a yawn. "When this is all over,” Richard promised, “when he's better, I'm going to take you on a proper holiday and I'm going to watch you cook, every night you feel like cooking. I'm going to take you scuba diving and I'm going to fall even more in love with you." Aidan's disease had made the nature of their lives—and how much of it they spent not truly living it—very clear.

"How did I get so lucky?" Dean leaned up and kissed him. "The day I met you was the luckiest day of my life. Let me help you. We'll start a grass roots advocacy program for organ donation. Whatever it takes."

"You're amazing," whispered Richard against his ear. "Are you sleepy?"

"Not _that_ sleepy," Dean's eyes shone, and he pounced.


	6. Unknown Caller

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aidan collapses unexpectedly. This is the chapter all of you have been dreading.
> 
> Warning: contains the death of a major character.

With an itinerary suggested by Dean in hand, Angela and Danny Turner set off to spend the afternoon in London. Dean, meanwhile, adjusted the temperature and the volume of music in his smaller, upstairs studio. At first, he was concerned about Aidan climbing the stairs, but when Aidan arrived, his hair down and freshly washed, as Dean had requested, Dean greeted him with a nervous smile.

"You made it," he stated the obvious. "Last chance to back out, Turner."

"Last chance to get over yourself and admit you need me for your painting." Shots were immediately fired. Aidan was as energetic as he had been weeks ago. He didn't know what caused it—he was having a rare good day today, and he planned to enjoy it. Looking around the studio, he tried to imagine what Dean was going to make of his painting, but he was without clues. "Do I need to get changed?"

Dean chuckled at Aidan’s barb. He'd expected this. "Not... exactly," he opened a nearby drawer, "but there is a bit of make-up involved."

"Eyeliner? I look good in eyeliner. Everyone who sees your painting is going to talk to you about the eyeliner."

"Well, yes. It's eyeliner. Kohl, to be exact," Dean popped the lid off a golden tube of the black substance. "You have really amazing eyes, Aidan. And this is going to make them look even more stunning." He walked closer to where Aidan was sitting on a stool. "May I?" he asked, holding up the thick pencil.

Aidan was simply entertained by how much Dean, in all his awkwardness, sounded like he was flirting. He raised his chin, closed his eyes expectantly and thought of the many ways he could be a little pest about it.

But before he could comment on the fact that he could apply it himself, and that Dean was standing awfully close, before Aidan could open his eyes just when Dean was about to apply the kohl. Dean surprised him with a steady hand that brushed the liner on, never going outside the contours of his eyes, until the top line was done.

"Do I need to look up now?" Aidan asked with a quieter voice.

"If you want to." Dean cupped his face to steady it, ready to put the kohl underneath Aidan's eyes. He had painted just a slight upturn at each corner and could already tell that the lines would deeply enhance the dark orbs Aidan already possessed. "Ready?"

"When you are." Aidan found the approving look of an artist a bit like doing something right on stage and receiving praise from the director; it was flattering. He looked about him, trying to assemble an image of what Dean expected of him. "What is Osiris doing in your painting?" he asked. "Do I look strict? Should I smile?"

"Can you look at me for a few minutes? Just a resting face will do," Dean told him. "I just want to make a brief sketch of the lines of your face. Eventually, I hope to have you gazing at a point in the distance. For now you can just get comfortable and look at me."

The studio was slightly chilly, so Aidan had donned a warm outfit, completed by a loosely knitted scarf. He did as he was told, his eyes on Dean with the best poker face his acting career had been working towards. "Tell me the truth, I look like a pharaoh with a cold, don't I?"

"You look handsome and regal," Dean eyes cut back and forth from Aidan to the sketch pad in front of him as he drew. " You pull off the ruse quite well. That is, until you speak and ruin the illusion."

"You're an asshole."

Dean chuckled, eyes twinkling.

Aidan continued to sit for Dean in the most haughty manner. He didn't do it on purpose; he was simply lost in his judgment of a man whose work was so renowned and whose money funds seemed never to end regardless of how long he hadn't produced a painting, that his character had to have suffered as a result. He wondered if he would be like Dean if he ever made it big. Life had to be easy for Dean O'Gorman.

It was fascinating, as long as Aidan stepped back and ignored that the insults were meant for him. 

"What time is Richard coming back?" he asked.

 _I wish he were here too,_ Dean thought, relieved at least that Aidan was still just as uncomfortable around him as ever. "Today's his long day. He's done at three, but then has a night lecture from six to nine. He grabs dinner at the university cafeteria. We won't see him until after that," Dean told him. "Your parents will be back soon, I'd imagine."

"I saw Westminster on their list; I don't think so. How is the sketch coming along? Am I looking like you want me to yet?"

Dean held up a finger, requesting that he give him just one more moment. Then, satisfied, he stood and brought the sketchpad to Aidan.

In front of him was an extremely accurate sketch of his face, his eyes lined and expression determined.

"You see?" Dean said gently. "You make a wonderful model. You're very handsome, Aidan."

For once, Aidan had nothing sarcastic to say in return. He shifted closer to his portrait. Dean had only needed fifteen minutes for it, but it was so striking. It was him. "I do," he spoke slowly, amazed at the likeness and the image that Dean seemed to have of him. _Handsome, but a nuisance._ Aidan couldn't press his finger to the specific detail, but he was sure that that was what Dean saw when he looked at him. "You're an amazing artist. How are you going to set the stage?" He leaned closer. "Are you giving me green skin?"

"Green?" Dean laughed softly. "Ah, you mean as in the traditional depictions? No, I’m thinking a natural skin tone. One that matches your own, actually. Osiris will be standing at the maw of the realm of the dead, standing between one army reluctant to go in, and another yearning to get out."

He cupped Aidan's face gently and ran a thumb over one of his cheekbones. "Are you sure you don't have any Egyptian blood?"

If it were anyone but Dean, Aidan would have misconstrued it as flirting. And it would have been a nice thing to imagine; _artist falls for his subject and forgets about painting him_. Which was why Dean's behavior had Aidan uncomfortable and yet flushed. Was he like this with every one of his subjects? How did Richard stand it?

He shook his head. "Nope. No Egyptian blood, I don't think. Should I sit from a different angle?"

"Hrm?" Dean seemed to awaken, as if from a fugue. "Oh sorry. Yes... yes. Can you turn a bit to your left, so that I'm seeing you from a forty-five degree angle? See that poster up there, the Warhol soup can? Could you maybe look up at that for about ten minutes or so? You can talk if you want," Dean told him quickly. "I didn't mean to imply that you shouldn't."

Aidan smiled while he followed Dean's lead. "It's okay, I got used to it." If something sensible came out of his mouth more often, he might have been able to hold on to one of the men that had been in his life. Funny how it took an illness of the heart to understand that people hadn't wanted said heart because they hadn't liked to hear him speak.

A sadness spread in his chest. He was good enough at what he did to keep it out of his appearance and not mess anything up, but Aidan did not say another thing for the next ten minutes he sat for Dean.

Dean made no pretense of possibly trying to understand what Aidan was going through. The sullen periods of silence weren't unusual. He knew that by now. He wished he knew the right words to say to Aidan; he was very jealous of Richard in that respect. Richard always knew what to say. Not just to Aidan though. Richard always knew what to say to _everyone._

He shivered suddenly. _As if someone had walked over his grave._ That's what his grandmother would have said. He heard a clanging sound as the metal stool Aidan had been sitting on fell over. When he looked up from his sketch pad, Aidan was lying on the floor, as lifeless as a broken doll. There were no signs of distress; Aidan did not move. He did not seem to be breathing, either.

Upon inspection, Aidan's pulse was so faint, and there was so much time in between one and the next, that he might as well not have been alive.

Dean yanked his cell phone from his pocket and dialed for an ambulance. As soon as they promised they'd be there soon, he called Richard. Aidan's hand was cold in his, but he was, at least, breathing.

"Dean?" Richard sounded far over the phone. "Hi love. What's up?"

"It's Aidan," Dean's throat felt so tight he could hardly force the words out. "W-we were sketching and he just passed out. An ambulance is coming and we're going to hospital. H-he was just sitting there, and then he wasn't, and..."

Richard looked sharply up at his class, then grabbed his valise and immediately walked out. "Emergency," he explained while walking to the classroom exit, "if I'm not back in five, class dismissed." He didn't bother finding a private spot to talk to Dean. "Is he—he's breathing, isn't he? Is he awake now? What hospital are they taking him to? Is it the same?"

"He's unconscious still," Dean told him. "His pulse was so weak I could barely feel it. It seems a little stronger now, I guess. I'm scared, Rich. Yes, we're going to the same hospital. It's where Aidan's doctors are."

As Dean was talking, Richard heard a siren in the background and it ratcheted up his heartbeat. 

"Can you come?" Dean asked. "He's going to want you."

"On my way," said Richard. He didn't bother returning to the classroom to tell his students that class would not continue; he quickly made a call that informed his department head that something had come up, then searched for his car keys, flung his bag around his shoulder, and was off with hands shaking and bile in his throat.

The paramedics moved past Dean and up the stairs to the studio. They had told Dean not to move Aidan, so he hadn't, but that also meant that precious seconds were lost on the stairs.

"You say he has a heart condition," said the one closest to Dean, no less in a hurry. "Can you tell us what happened? What did he eat this morning?"

"We had crepes with fruit," Dean told them. Angela had cooked. "Would food do this to him?"

The paramedic thought about that, but only said, "Possibly, possibly not. What was he doing right before he passed out?"

As soon as they reached the studio, they were immediately by Aidan's side. Aidan had not woken up. His lips were turning blue again. "Asphyxiation," said the other paramedic to his partner. They both acted like he wasn't there, following a series of checks that had them look increasingly concerned.

“He was just sitting on a stool while I drew him,” Dean told them apologetically. “Nothing strenuous at all, I swear.”

At last they unfolded the stretcher and lifted Aidan on it. Aidan did not respond to anything. He looked like he was dead more than simply unconscious. Gone was the man with the Egyptian complexion and the need to cheer things up. Instead his arms bungled about limply when they moved him, strapped him tight and moved him into the ambulance.

There, they instantly hooked him to the oxygen.

The ambulance ride was grim. Dean seemed to only be in the way of the paramedics. He could only hold Aidan's cold, slack hand, when access was allowed. In all the times he had dreaded speaking to Aidan, he would have been overjoyed if Aidan would open his eyes and spoke—if only to call him an asshole, or to remind him that he'd rather be hanging out with Richard.

"Sir, you cannot come back here!" the nurse told him when they wheeled Aidan's stretcher through the hydraulic doors leading to the examination area. And Dean was left, looking for all the world like a lost puppy, in the emergency waiting room.

Ninety minutes passed, and still Richard did not arrive. Dean texted and called several times and there was no response. Richard must have been asked to stay behind and teach. That could be the only explanation. He fiddled idly with his phone. He was just getting up to find a nurse and ask how Aidan was doing when Dr. Pace came sweeping out the double doors towards him.

"Mr. O'Gorman?" he asked. "Here for Aidan Turner?" Although Richard was Aidan's first contact, Dr. Pace did not seem to be looking for him. "Could you come with me please?"

"How is Aidan?" Dean wanted to know immediately. "Is he... is he..."

"He's stable," started Dr. Pace as soon as they were both sitting. He folded his hands before him on the table. "Your friend was, we believe, not getting enough oxygen due to the deformity in his heart. I'm glad you were with him, or more damage might have been done. The thing is," he looked up at Dean, "we are currently preparing him for surgery."

"An operation?" Dean asked, hand unconsciously reaching for his phone to call Richard again. "Can his body handle surgery at this point? Will it even help?"

Dr. Pace's lips pursed and his fingers untangled. "That's what we hope. There is no time left, Mr. O'Gorman. A heart has just become available, and one that seems perfectly compatible. Awful timing, I agree, but it's too big a risk to wait for the next, although surgery now isn't without its own dangers. We must have hope."

It was as if the clouds had parted and a ray of golden sunlight shone through. Angels were dancing on the sunbeams.

"Oh my god," Dean breathed, "you got a...." He brought a hand to his face, surprised to find he was crying. "That's... incredible. I'm sorry, yes... you have to go. Thank you."

Dr. Pace pointed the way back to the waiting room, gave him one last concerned glance, and then bustled off through the double doors.

Dean dialed Richard's number yet again and was quickly sent to voice-mail. "You're going to be so happy, Richard," Dean told him. "It's a miracle! They found a heart for Aidan! Please get here as fast as you can."

Another hour passed. Dean couldn't shake the feeling that there was something terribly, terribly wrong.

It was shortly after six when Aidan's mother called Dean, wanting to know if they'd be home soon. The door was closed, though some of the lights were still on in the house, and they hadn't been able to get in touch with Richard either.

"It's no problem if you won't be home for another hour or so," said Angela. "We can go for a walk and come back later."

Guilt washed over Dean. He’d completely forgotten to call Aidan’s parents.

"Angela, I'm so sorry," Dean told her, throat so tight with panic that he could hardly speak. "I completely forgot that you and Danny were in town. Aidan is in the hospital. They... they've found a heart! He's being operated on right now. Can you and Danny get to the Royal Brompton Hospital? Take a cab. I'll meet you out front and pay for it."

"He's what?!" she cried. In the back, Danny asked her what was the matter, but all he got was, "Hail a cab, hail a cab now! The Royal Brompton, yes?"

\- - - - -

Aidan's parents arrived forty minutes after phone call. Angela sent Dean a message to say they were nearly there, like she had been sending him messages about Aidan all throughout the drive.

"Sorry love," she hugged Dean as soon as she saw him, "some traffic accident. Road was blocked for clean-up. We had to take a massive detour. Is he out of surgery yet? Can we see him?"

Angela's arms were a comfort, but by now Dean was worried sick about both Aidan and Richard. "He's still in the operating room," Dean told her. "A nurse stopped out earlier and told me things are going very, very well. Guys, I think he's going to be okay."

Angela looked at Dean, before promptly hugging him again. "I knew it'd be all right," she beamed. "My Aidan. He always gets back on his feet, that he does. Come, you look like you could use a coffee. I am going to get you the best one they've got, and then I'd like you to tell me what happened."

Dean's phone buzzed to life in his pocket.

_Unknown caller._

At the third buzz, he activated the call.

"Hello?" came a deep male voice Dean did not recognize. "Is this the number of Dean O'Gorman?"

Dean's heart seized in his chest. He could barely hear the man speaking to him. Dimly, he raised his hand to the Turners, signaling he was leaving the busy waiting room. He slipped out the front door of the hospital and stood a few feet away behind a metal trash can.

"This is Dean. Who is this?"

"This is officer Paul McAllister." There was the sound of traffic in the distance. "Do you know a man named Richard Armitage?"

"I-I do," Dean's stomach clenched, and everything around him seemed to grow smaller and smaller. "He's my partner. My _husband._ Please, is he all right?"

"... I'm very sorry to tell you this, Mr. O'Gorman." The man hesitated. "There has been an accident. It pains me to ask, but would you be willing to identify him?"

"Identify him?" Dean closed his eyes. He knew what was being said. He _knew_. But he needed to hear it. "Is he all right?" he repeated.

"...I'm sorry, sir."

 _Richard was dead._

"No," Dean whispered. "You must have the wrong man. This is a mistake."

_The accident that Danny and Angela had gotten detoured around…_

"Where?" was all Dean could manage.

"Oxford Road, Mr. O'Gorman. I'm very sorry for your loss. We are still figuring out how it all happened. Your husband's car was hit from the side." The officer, though genuinely sorry, sounded uncomfortable at the mention of Dean and Richard being two men married. "Could you please come to the Princess Grace Hospital as soon as you can make it?"

When Dean got off the phone, Angela stood before him clutching a coffee. She did not need to be told what had happened. She knew. "Oh love," she whispered.

Dean's hands shook as he slid the phone back into a pocket in the lining of his jacket. "I-I have to go," he whispered. "It's Richard. He—"

She nodded. "If anything changes for Aidan, I'll give you a call. Go to him." She had tears in her eyes. Her son was currently her first priority, but she had always liked Richard; Aidan talked about him to the point that she felt she knew him well. To have this happening at the same time was a terrible turn of events.

\- - - - -

Princess Grace Hospital was a madness of sirens, press and people when Dean arrived. He made it to the main reception desk at last, but it all took too long, it was too hectic. He felt as if he were walking through mud.

"How can I help you, sir?" The lady behind the desk was used to the trouble. She smiled kindly.

Dean could barely force himself to speak. The urge to simply drive home, cook dinner and wait for Richard there was strong. "I was told that m—my husband was in an accident. Told that he might have died and I was to come in and..." he paused, unable to say the words, gripping the counter with one hand to ground himself. "Can you help?"

She didn't need more than that to continue the procedure. While maintaining sympathy, she professionally asked Dean for his name, then his partner's. A call had her establish that someone would be there to pick him up shortly.

Two minutes later, a uniformed man in his sixties walked up to him. "Dean O'Gorman?" 

Officer McAllister extended a hand. "We spoke on the phone. Thank you for being able to make it here so fast. I'm terribly sorry about the circumstances. If there is anything you'd like to ask, please don't hesitate," he said, leading Dean to the elevator.

Dean noted that McAllister's finger poked a button labeled _Basement/Morgue_ and he shuddered.

"Can you tell me what happened?" Dean asked him, feeling as if his knees didn’t want to support him.

"We are still working on an official report, but we believe Mr. Armitage was hit at the intersection of Wonderland and Oxford Roads by a speeding car, directly on the driver's side door. Witnesses were unable to say if he ran the light, or if the other fellow did. The other driver's very shaken up."

 _Richard would never do that. He'd never run a red light_ Dean thought to himself. _But he was hurrying to the hospital to see Aidan._

"Mr. Armitage's neck was instantly broken by the impact," the officer went on to explain, although Dean's complexion had paled considerably. "He survived the trip to the hospital. And thank heavens, he was an organ donor. Which, I assume, you probably knew."

Dean nodded minutely. He willed himself to wake up from the nightmare he was having.

"There was no saving him," the officer assured him. "He was fading fast, and unable to speak or move. He was barely breathing. But we were able to harvest nearly all of his vital organs. I hope that gives you some comfort."

"Organ donation is a cause Richard feels very strongly about," Dean said softly. " _Felt,_ I mean," he managed before the walls of the elevator began to close in on him. "Are... are we there yet? I can't breathe."

"Do you need a moment?" asked the officer, who had been through this situation before, and had seen countless people falter on the way there. "Do you want me to call someone? It's best not to go through this alone, Mr. O'Gorman. A friend, family?"

"No," Dean insisted. "Take me to him, please. Right away. I—I need to see him."

The elevator dinged, and using a special key, McAllister was able to open the rear door of the elevator, which opened to a cold room, large metal doors in the wall and people dressed in white.

One of them extracted herself from the interior and walked up to Dean. She extended a hand. "Good evening. I'm Dr. Suresh Bhandari. You are here to see Mr. Armitage?" Yet he waited until both Dean and Officer McAllister gave him a nod to gesture them to follow into a separate chamber.

A body bag lay on a solitary table. They had taken the courtesy of having placed it open—a sensibility for the people who came down to that room to ID a loved one, as a body bag was an unpleasant sight to behold—but had strategically covered the body to hide the organ extraction wounds.

There was no doubt about it. His wounds cleaned up and made slightly more presentable than he had been at the time of death, Richard yet lay bruised and battered before Dean.

Dean let out a harsh gasp. Now, there was no denying what had happened.

A cut that did not bleed ran across the left side of Richard’s face and smaller cuts—probably from flying glass, peppered his face and neck.

"Oh, Rich," Dean surged forward, voice threatening to fail him. "Can I touch him?" he asked the attendant standing across the table. She nodded.

Dean regretted instantly the hand that moved to cup Richard's cold cheek. Richard's body was colder than the room they stood in. He was no longer there. What remained was a shell.

"Did it hurt him? Dying?" Dean asked no one in particular, unable to stop looking at Richard's closed eyes, willing them to open and for this to all have been some elaborate joke.

"Perhaps for a split second," the woman said gently, "when the cars collided. But once his neck broke, there would have been no more pain for him."

Dean thought back to the last time he'd seen Richard in pain. He'd snapped his ankle in a ridiculous attempt at in-line skating in 2005. Memories flooded his mind then, of lazy Christmas mornings, walks in the park, a cruise to Greece, sitting in the back row of a poetry reading, and the best day of all—the day they'd gotten married surrounded by friends, outdoors under autumn foliage.

"What do I do now?" Dean asked, at length, voice clogged with tears.

"We'll release the body to the funeral home of your choice," Officer McAllister told him. "And then—"

"No," Dean interrupted him. "I mean, how do I _live_? How do I go home and go to bed alone? How do I keep breathing in and out while he isn't?"

Neither of the others had anything to say to that, looking down in unspoken apology. To Dr. Bhandari, the man on the table was another one who hadn't made it. It was her job to see the dead daily, to establish a cause of death and then to see to it that they made room for new cases. It wasn't the dead that made her sad; it was the living, whose emotions still managed to touch her, once or twice.

How did Dean continue to keep breathing? He just did, and in time—months, years from now—the pain would become bearable. But she couldn't tell him that.

"Take as much time as you need, Mr. O'Gorman," was what she offered instead. "I will give you some privacy with him."

And then it was just them.

Dean leaned over and buried his face in Richard's thick, dark hair, tears falling freely now.

"I should have been with you," he sobbed. "We should have died together. Please, god, I need you..."

He lay his head over Richard's chest, holding his husband for the last time. Beneath Dean’s ear, there was nothing but silence.


	7. The Gold Couch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's friends come to his aid. Aidan's parents return from the hospital bearing news.

At Officer McAllister's insistence that he call someone—anyone—to be with him, Dean called Martin. And Martin called Jimmy, who called Adam, who called a number of other friends. They came to Dean and Richard's house, bearing casseroles and bottles of wine.

"What can we do for him?" Adam asked Martin as they both looked at Dean, who was next to Jed Brophy on a big leather sofa. From the desolate look on Dean’s face, he might as well have been on another planet.

"Be here, I suppose," was the only thing Martin could think of. "He needs to get used to the idea before we start doing something which would only set him off. Look at him. He looks like he died and went after Richard, himself. And I can't blame him. He was still here yesterday. I heard he left class because of an emergency, and that was the last thing he said. I can't accept that he's no longer here, Adam. He's just... gone like _that_." He looked beaten, his eyes teary around the edges, although he refused to give into it. "Dean shouldn't be alone tonight, Adam. That'll do him no good."

"I'll stay here with him if he wants," Adam said easily enough. "Of course I will. If he'll let me."

"How do you feel, Dean?" Jed put a gentle hand over Dean's.

"I feel like there are knives in my lungs and in my heart," Dean told him, eyes still far away. "I can't breathe properly."

"That's anxiety," Jed explained. "I struggled with if after my mum died. Listen, I brought along some Alprazolam. It’s Xanax. They really helped me when she passed. Just to take the edge off. You can have the bottle," he handed it to Dean. 

Dean accepted the bottle and stared at it. As if the answers to his sadness could be found inside a plastic pharmacy bottle! He felt eviscerated.

"Do you want some food?" Jed asked him.

Dean shook his head. "No. Not yet."

Eventually Graham made an attempt to console Dean, without more luck than Jed. He placed a well-meant hand on Dean's knee and talked about anything that came to mind that wasn't Richard. 

He couldn't cheer Dean up.

Martin eventually took over. "I'm staying here for the night," he said to Dean. "There's no way you're alone in this house tonight. Have you got a spare bed or some blankets somewhere?"

Dean nodded. "I... um. Aidan's room. I suppose you can sleep there. He's not going to be using it. But you really don't have to stay," Dean insisted. "The pill Jed gave me actually helps. I feel like I can breathe now. I feel like Richard could just come walking through that door any minute with two bags of Thai takeaway and flowers," he looked sadly at the front door, as if willing it to happen.

Martin and Adam shared a look. "Yes, I see. No, I think it's really best if someone stays with you tonight," Martin wouldn't take no for an answer. "Is there anything we can do for you? Clean, do the laundry, anything?

_Arrange a funeral that wasn't going to be otherwise arranged?_

"Have you talked to his parents?" Adam seemed on the right track of mind. "You don't have to do this alone. We all loved Richard. I'm sure that if Aidan was here, he would be adamant on helping you out."

At that moment, a knock came on the front door, and it opened immediately after. Ian McKellan, Dean and Richard's attorney, entered, carrying a briefcase. 

"My boy," he approached Dean and swept him up in a hug, "I was just now able to get away from clients. I'm so frightfully sorry to hear about Richard. He was a delightful man."

Dean nodded against Ian's chest. "Yes, yes he was." It was painful speaking about Richard in the past tense.

"I got here as quickly as I could. I have some news that might be of good use to you at this dreadful time," Ian held Dean at arm's length. "As you know, Richard was always thinking ahead and planning for the future."

"He was much better at doing that than I was," Dean admitted ruefully.

"Some years ago, he laid out explicit instructions for his funeral and subsequent cremation," Ian told Dean. "He's even paid for eighty percent of it. As your attorney, with your blessing, I can see to his wishes and contact the newspapers, his family and other appropriate vendors. I have several copies of his wishes with me."

"That is _so_ very like him," Martin remarked, rubbing Dean's shoulder in a gesture meant to comfort. "Looking out for you right up until the end."

Dean accepted a stapled stack of papers Ian pulled from his briefcase and held it in his trembling hands.

"We can hold the service any day you wish," Ian told. 

Adam looked at Martin. They both thought the same; while it was considerate, they weren't sure whether Dean's mind was set on a funeral while he was still having trouble grasping the truth. "Come, have a seat," Adam offered. "I'll get you a cup of tea. Do sit down by the fire—it's so cold outside."

Everyone gathered around the attorney in hopes of hearing what Richard had arranged for himself. But Ian did not speak of it to anyone. The only one who needed to know was Dean. Ian did, however, what everyone else had refrained from doing. He was talking about Richard.

"Oh, I do remember when you just moved in here." He looked around the house. "Very different from what it is today, back then. Of course, your studio is a temporary matter, but I remember that hideous yellow couch that you loved. Richard didn't dare tell you how awful it was."

"It wasn't _yellow_ ," Dean smiled fondly at the memory. "It was _gold._ "

"It was arse-ugly is what it was," Graham punched Dean's arm affectionately. 

"It had character." The look on Dean's face led them all to believe that he was lost in a fond—and possibly lascivious—memory about the couch. "It's upstairs in the extra bedroom, if you'd all like to go say hello."

"You kept it?!" laughed Jimmy. He looked around the group, almost ready to suggest bringing it down to the living room, but then realized that now was not the time. "And that matching purple table? The one you said was incredible because of the 'complementary colors'? God, Rich never had the heart to tell you how tasteless it was, did he?"

Dean blushed and looked down at his fingers, curled together cautiously in his lap. "It's upstairs, next to the couch," he confessed. “And the color was eggplant,” he added, lips raising in a small but encouraging smile.

"It's where he puts all the knick-knacks we buy him that he's too kind to throw away." Adam handed Dean a hot cup of tea, two cubes of sugar sitting on the saucer. 

"I love those knick-knacks too," Dean told them, glad to have something to do with hands, "even that scary Japanese cat that waves for no reason."

"Mh, I'm sure he's got his embarrassing teen photo albums there somewhere." Adam squeezed Dean's shoulder, glad that the unease was out of the room. While it wasn't a happy subject, Dean appeared to be doing better while they were on it. "But that cat was downright creepy. Did you know Richard got it in Soho once, a few weeks after his work excursion to Beijing? He got everyone souvenirs but said he forgot to bring something for himself. Hence the cat."

"That fucking cat," Dean chuckled softly, wiping an errant tear from one cheek. "I'm glad I never gave into my inclination to smash it with a hammer. Its eyes follow you, you know, no matter where you go in the room." He plopped the sugar cubes into his tea one by one and watched intently as they dissolved.

"Has anyone heard from Aidan's parents?" he asked.

Everyone in the room fell quiet. Some of them didn't understand why, but Martin eventually started, "Well, he has been staying here. I... sort of assumed you would have. You mean they haven't called you? Frankly, I've got Aidan's number but not his parents'. Actually, I don't think anyone here has."

"I don't have Aidan's." Adam didn't like admitting it. "Or I might have, but I'm not sure. He kept changing it every year at one point. There's three numbers in my phone, and they're all pretty old."

"I should go back to the hospital," Dean said. He tried to rise, but Martin put a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

"It's late."

"Richard would want me to be with Aidan," Dean told them. "He'd be so happy that a heart was found for Aidan, just when he needed it most. I should—"

"It's half past eleven, Dean," Adam told him. "They wouldn't allow you in the hospital now anyway. Not at this hour. You should sleep."

"I _am_ tired," Dean told them. "I've never been more tired in my life."

"Exactly." Adam cast everyone a look that said, _if he's going to sleep, you all are out of here in five_. "I'm sure that if something bad happened, they would have called you. No news is good news, right?"

"Why would they call me?" Dean muttered. "I've been awful to Aidan. He was Richard's friend!" he spat. "It's no secret we barely tolerate one another."

"We'll go over in the morning," Martin promised him. "First thing."

"So," Adam gestured over to the studio, where Aidan had been staying—where all of his stuff still was—, "what do we do about that?"

"Aidan lives here now," Dean shrugged. "I... we, just have to wait and see, all right?" _I don't have the energy to do anything else,_ his words implied. "And tomorrow, I have— _we_ have to tell him what happened."

"Ah," Ian interjected, "actually, I could do that for you. If, of course, his doctor agrees. If I'm not mistaken, he's just been through heart surgery. I'm not sure whether we should be telling him this so soon, if it means extra stress for him. But generally speaking, I could do that for you. Richard asked me to support you any way I can, if you need me to."

Martin got up. "We will consider it in the morning." He wasn't appointed to decide for Dean, but he could see how weary his friend had become. "Right now, Dean needs to get some rest. So if you could all...," he gestured them to the door, "...that'd be amazing."

It took him some trouble to get everyone out, mostly because some of them were so worried about Dean that they didn't want to leave him—and some because they mourned Richard equally, and would be alone themselves at home. When he did, he sighed and sat in front of Dean. "Okay, fellow. I can sleep in the same room, on the couch, or you can sleep on the couch if the bed is not okay tonight."

"I don't want to go into our bedroom," Dean told him, eyes brimming with still more tears. "I think," he smiled softly, "that I'd really like to sleep on that ugly yellow couch. "Would you get me my pillow? It's on the right side of the bed."

Martin softened. Richard would probably know how to handle Dean and his couch. He would know a lot of things. "I miss him too," he said. "We all miss him. This should never have happened to him. He should have at least been there to find out Aidan got a new heart. Richard fought so hard for that. He should have grown old and gone in his sleep, after having done everything he had wanted to do."

Dean broke then, his knees failing him at last. Martin intercepted him before he could hit the carpeted floor of the hallway and eased them both down into a sitting position.

"I need him," Dean finally began sobbing, something he'd been holding back all day. "He is my _life,_ Martin. What do I do now?"

Martin didn't have an answer for Dean, but held him until his sobs turned to sniffles and whimpers. Then he held him longer. Soon, he was able to help Dean to his feet and tuck him to sleep on the well-worn—and obviously well-loved—gold couch. 

Martin kissed Dean on the forehead. "Tomorrow will be a little better," he told him, "as will each day that follows."

He stayed there in the extra bedroom, covers wrapped around him to keep warm, and waited almost three hours for Dean's breathing to even out, before Martin allowed himself to follow Dean in slumber.

\- - - - -

It was 7:45 a.m. when the doorbell rang.

Martin woke, groggy with sleep, and checked Dean. Thankfully the sound hadn't woken him up. He looked terrible, dark smudges beneath his puffy eyes, but at least he was asleep.

The doorbell rang again.

Oh, marvelous. The kind of people that thought ringing once wasn't enough—the insistent kind. It would probably ring once more, if he didn't get up and do something about it soon, so he was forced to slip out of his makeshift bed, tiptoe down the steps and—ignoring the poor state of his clothing—open the door. Oh, they were in for it. "Yes?" he snapped unkindly.

Two equally disheveled people stood on the doorstep, equally lost. "Hi," the woman tried. "Are you one of Richard's friends? We're here to pick up some belongings for Aidan."

"I'm Martin," Martin offered her his hand to shake, feeling his frustration dissipate at the sorry state of the two. "Do come in, both of you. You've been staying here, haven't you? You could have just come in. We left the door open for you all night. I..." he paused until both of them had taken off their coats, "I don't suppose you'd yet heard, but, " he cleared his throat to make room for the bad news to come out, "Richard was killed yesterday. Auto accident."

Angela didn't come in, her tears welling up on the spot. She clapped a hand before her mouth. "I knew it. I knew something—but not that. He was called y—oh, goodness, _dead_. I thought, something terrible. Cancer, maybe. Something bad. But not _that_. You mean Richard...?"

Her husband guided her inside the house so that Martin could close the door to ward off the cold. He was equally shocked. "We tried to call him several times. Angela rang Dean around ten, but we didn't get a response, so we thought..."

" _Dead_ ," she whispered. "Oh God, and we're here to collect pajamas and a toothbrush. I feel terrible."

"It's a blow to us all," Martin nodded, accepting both their coats and hanging them on a rack inside the door. "I was about to put on some coffee and see what's available for breakfast. I'm pretty sure someone brought over an egg and sausage casserole last evening," he smiled. "Join me in the kitchen and tell me how Aidan's doing, will you?"

The list of things to retrieve being temporarily less pressing, Aidan's parents accepted the offer for breakfast. They looked like they'd readily accept a quick nap on the couch just the same. "I lost count after ten cups of coffee last night," Danny said. "If I can have a glass of water, that'd be great."

"Orange juice?" requested Aidan's mother, who looked like she had undergone the same fate. She restored a bit of herself as soon as she took a long drink. "Martin, is it? I'm sorry, I'm Angela. This is Danny. We're Aidan's parents. You probably figured that out already. Are you a friend of Aidan's?"

"I teach at the university with Richard," Martin told them. "I got to know Aidan and Dean by default, of course. How fortunate that the two of you were here for Aidan when he needed you most. I hope you have some good news for us in that regard." He found the casserole wrapped in plastic and set it on the counter. He turned on the oven and then sat down at the table with the Turners.

"Well, he's still asleep," Angela started. "The doctors say he'll be asleep for a long time, maybe days. The surgery was a success, but apparently there are still a lot of things that can go wrong. He could reject the heart. It'll be weeks of him in the hospital before they assess if he can continue his revalidation at home. He got lucky, Martin, very lucky. If that heart hadn't been there for him..."

"I'm not a religious person," Martin prefaced his next statement, "but clearly there is a set plan for Aidan's life. He's not done accomplishing everything he has yet to do. What wonderful news. But days, weeks in hospital? He'll be devastated to miss Richard's funeral. They had a very close and quirky friendship, but I suppose the two of you figured that out already."

Dean came into the room, wearing the same clothing he'd gone to bed in, hair unruly. His eyes were still quite puffy and red from yesterday's events. "I heard the doorbell," he explained, voice hoarse. "I thought.... Oh, I don't know what I thought. Good morning Angela," he nodded, "Danny."

They nodded. "Dean," started Angela. "I am so sorry. We just heard. Is there anything we can do for you?"  
"They're here to pick up some of Aidan's stuff," Martin explained. He didn't need to add that all of them looked equally lacking in sleep.  
"Just a pajama and the bare necessities. He's going to stay in hospital a while. It looks wrong seeing him in that hospital gown. He wouldn't like waking up in one." She smiled sadly. It probably made little difference in comparison to Richard being gone. "He made it through surgery."

Dean nodded, as if he'd expected as much. "That's really, really wonderful news. I—I hope you two will stay here as long as you feel the need to, while Aidan's recovering. I'm going to go upstairs and take a shower and go over some paperwork." He rushed from the room before they could see his tears.

"He's devastated about Richard," Martin explained to them. "They've been together fifteen years. Well, you can imagine." He got up and slipped the casserole into the oven. "Why don't you two go to Aidan's room and get what you need for the hospital? After that, you can have a little breakfast and maybe even a nap."

Aidan's parents were most grateful about that last part. They weren't fast in recovering what they needed because they had no idea where to look. The studio had, over the course of Aidan's visit, already turned into a mess. Clothes were on the floor, and the bathroom also held some of Dean and Richard's belongings. Aidan's studio frankly looked like a small hotel room after a few days with someone whose clothing no longer fit into his luggage.

Angela made an effort to clean it up a little for Dean's sake.

When they finally had everything they needed, they crashed each on one of the couches, before having had breakfast.

Martin found them blankets before following Dean upstairs and knocking softly on the door. "Are you in here?" he asked.

"Come in," Dean's voice sounded clogged with tears. Martin had to get used to that.

He found Dean sitting on a corner of the couch, an afghan pulled around him. In his hands was the sheaf of paper Ian had given him—Richard's funeral wishes.

"This..." Dean tapped the paper with his free hand, "it's a lot to take in. Richard wants you to speak at his memorial. Will you do that?"

"Of course." Martin sat down next to him. He didn't have a reason for coming here other than making sure Dean was all right. "Will you be speaking? What does it say in the papers? Is he about to go Vangelis and poetry recitals on us?"

"There _is_ a poem he wants read," Dean smiled softly at the notion. "It's Keats, of course. A sad one. He asks here that Aidan be the one to read it, but I'm afraid he won't be able to. It's too soon. Perhaps Graham could do it. He's got the accent for it." Dean's eyes grew distant. "He's even put in here a playlist of all the songs he wants played at his wake. You won't be surprised at any of them. I wasn't," Dean touched the paper as if he were stroking Richard's hand.

"He wants the service in Kew Gardens. Outside if it's warm. Inside the orchid sanctuary if it's cold," Dean pulled the afghan up around his waist. "God, he loved that place. He's even listed here what he wants to be... to wear when..." Dean sighed. "A cardigan. Can you believe it?"

Martin chuckled, because it was so very Richard to ask that. "Typical. Did he give us a dress code as well? To be wearing a funeral suit is very formal if he's just going to be wearing a cardigan." He leaned his head on Dean's shoulder and sighed. "We will give him the funeral he wants, and exactly like that. We owe him at least that. Maybe I could ask if Aidan would be willing to record it. We could record the ceremony for him when he feels strong enough again. It'll—well, it'll be your last memory of him. I could imagine you would want to record it for later."

"I've always thought that was tacky," Dean fiddled with the paperwork, "taking photos at funerals, or recording them. But... I get it now. I could have Stephen do it. He's got a nice camera. I would hate for Aidan to miss it."

Dean turned his face to the window, where a few flakes of snow were drifting down past the pane. "Should we even _tell_ Aidan yet? Will it hinder his recovery?"

"I agree with Ian there—that's up to his doctor. But if it's acceptable, I wouldn't want him to miss it. They've always been close, and just like for us, it'll be his last chance as well." He gestured to the door. "His parents are downstairs. Maybe, if Aidan can't make it, his mother can act in his stead? Graham is fine, but Graham can no more replace Aidan than a stranger could replace you. You were the most important man in his life, and Aidan came second."

_Except for lately,_ Dean thought to himself. _Lately, Aidan came first._

" _You_ were his best friend, Martin," Dean assured him. "He loved, Aidan, certainly. But you and Richard were... well, to be honest, I always wondered how you two never wound up together."

"Oh, oh no, if anyone, then Aidan and not me," Martin was quick to shift the focus away from him. "He was a friend and colleague, but never more than that. Especially not after you came into the picture. From the first moment he saw you, he only had eyes for you, Dean. Besides," he wriggled his nose, "why would you think me and Richard? We drank coffee, cracked jokes and that was it." Nothing like the close familiarity of Aidan, who often sought out physical contact from Richard; or Dean, whom Richard loved with everything he did.

Dean didn't like to think about the romantic possibilities of either Martin or Aidan when it came to his husband. Of course, he had thought about it—plenty. Especially when Aidan leaned on Richard in public, texted him constantly. Dean had trusted Richard. But Aidan was good looking and Richard cared for him.

Pushing the thought away, Dean got out from under the afghan. "I should get a shower. Am I keeping you from anything today?"

It was a Saturday, but one could never know.

His friend shook his head once. "All plans canceled. Some things are more important than others, and this is a very important thing." He offered to clean up the living room while Dean was taking a shower. By that time, perhaps it was a good time to wake up Aidan's parents and maybe pay him a visit.

But Martin asked that tentatively. He knew there was no love lost between Dean and the man with the new heart.

"You're a good man, Martin," Dean told him, freshly shaved and smelling of a cologne Martin didn't recognize. He hugged him tightly. "Maybe, all this time, you've been my best friend and I just hadn't realized it."

Martin refrained from telling that Dean's friend had always been Richard, and would have continued to be his best friend until the end—an end that should have been postponed another thirty years at least.

He woke Aidan's parents when they had been asleep for two hours and offered them a cup of hot coffee. The casserole was reheated. At eleven in the morning, the odd company shared their late breakfast in silence.

"This is good," Dean said finally, after only eating two bites. "Who brought it?"

"It was in the fridge," Martin pointed out.

When neither of Aidan's parents responded, they all knew it had to have been either Richard's—or Richard's gift to Aidan. Aidan himself hadn't been to a supermarket since the moment he had taken up residence in the house.

"It's really good," Angela cut the palpable tension. "Thank you, Dean."

"You're our guests," he replied simply. " _My_ guest," he corrected, "for as long as Aidan needs you. Even longer, if you want. I have plenty of space. To be honest, I really... I need the company right now."

"We'll stay as long as you need us to," Danny told him. "Aidan trusts you to care for him, so you must be pretty amazing."

" _Richard_ was amazing," a smile ghosted across Dean's face. "I just happen to live here. I'm sure Aidan would tell you the same."

"I'm sure Aidan would think you're amazing, too," Angela disagreed. "And if he doesn't, then we still do. You're a wonderful man, Dean O'Gorman, and we would love to stay, if only for your company, for as long as Aidan is in the hospital." She smiled with the quiet pride of a mother—but rather directed at Dean than at Aidan. "If you need any help with anything, we will help you out. I can prepare food, and Danny wouldn't mind cleaning up." Danny spluttered when that chore was suddenly without his consent decided for him, but he didn't protest. She prodded him, her eyes on Dean. "What I'm saying is, you've been so kind to help our son when he needed it, now we help you when you do."

Dean couldn't—or wouldn't—contradict her, telling her that it was always Richard who made Aidan feel welcome. Dean had not been the best of hosts, nor a very good friend to Aidan. He was ashamed of himself and vowed to make it up to Aidan, when he could. Maybe that could start today.

"Do they think Aidan could be awake today?" Dean asked them. "I'd really like to talk to him."

"Oh dear," she said. "He could be out of it for days, according to the doctors. I have no idea. We could try though. He left surgery at a bit before midnight. We couldn't see him straight away. When we did, he was already fast asleep. Depending on how his body reacts to his new heart, they can keep him artificially asleep for days." She patted Dean's hand. "I say we just go and see."


	8. The Smell Helps Me Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aidan doesn't awaken from his surgery for three long days. Then, Dean must tell him about what happened to Richard.

Angela was adamant that Martin came to see Aidan as well. She was an expert at ignoring the staff when they informed her visiting hours would not be for another hour. "My son just got a new heart," she said, holding her head high; what she implied was that the staff was incompetent at recognizing someone who had been around to watch over her son all night, and shouldn't bother trying to stop her now.

She walked them to a secluded corner room, the door closed and a small tag on the door that said _A. Turner_.

"Want to go inside?" she asked Dean.

He nodded, although he would have been content to avoid seeing Aidan for another few days. But his parents were with him. And Martin—a buffer. 

When the opened the door, the room was dim except for the light of the monitors surrounding the bed and a small wall lamp in a corner.

Aidan was immobile in his sleep. His lips were colorless and his hair worse than what he had often defended as 'artfully messy'—like not combing his hair was part of a conscious style. He did not otherwise remind them of the fact that he had nearly died. All of his body was covered by sheets, except for his arms and face, fallen slightly to the side in an attempt to get comfortable.

"He looks better," insisted Danny. "He smelled like antiseptic yesterday." 

He had smelled like the dead, he had wanted to say.

Dean, who had an eye for such things, noticed Aidan's color right away. "His skin," he smiled, "it's got good color again. _His_ color. It's been so long since he's been without it that I nearly forgot." He reached out to touch Aidan's hair, then pulled the hand back, guiltily. "He looks so much better," he told the Turners.

They both smiled, proud of their son and his recovery. It was a double-edged blade, for only yesterday Richard had lost his life in a similar balance in which the scales had not tipped so favorably. "We are blessed he is still here," Angela admitted. She tucked a loose strand away from Aidan's face. "Would you two like some time alone with him? You're his friends, after all."

"Oh," Martin waved it away, "I'm happy knowing he's doing well. We should probably let him rest instead of risking the chance that he wakes." He was uncomfortable saying it while Aidan, who was normally an obnoxious meddler who would have protested or laughed their concerns away by now, lay unconscious. It was almost a peaceful sight, one that reminded him that apart from his prominent presence, Aidan wasn't so bad. He always had his heart in the right place, at least. It was what had gotten and kept Richard close to Aidan.

He smiled to himself at the wordplay.

"If you don't mind," Dean told them, "I'd like to sit here with him a bit. I won't wake him up, I promise. Is that all right?"

Angela, who didn't know any of Aidan's friends apart from the man who had died at the same night, accepted his request and ushered the rest out of the room. She closed the door with a care not to be loud, and turned to Martin when she knew Dean could no longer be heard.

"How is he holding up?" she asked him. "I fear the moment we need to tell Aidan about Richard. I can only imagine how his partner fares under the news..."

Dean slipped soundlessly into the white plastic chair next to Aidan's bed. He reached out and touched Aidan's hand. It wasn't cold. He remembered Richard telling him that Aidan's hands had been chronically cold for the past several months due to his poor circulation. The transplant was working.

Could the fates possibly be this simplistically cruel? To demand the loss of one life in exchange for saving another?

When Aidan let out a soft groan and stirred in his sleep, Dean pulled his hand away. Instead, he sat silently for a moment, then pulled his sketch pad out of his satchel and began drawing Aidan.

For the length of his study, Aidan did not wake up. Being on the painkillers that he was, nobody expected—or wanted—him to. But he occasionally stirred in his sleep, and once a groan of discomfort escaped him.

"Ah, right," Angela smiled when she saw the interaction through the plate glass window in the wall between them, "the artist friend is Dean. Aidan likes his paintings." Her son had also mentioned that said friend was otherwise difficult to talk to, but she did not need to mention that.

Martin mulled over some things in his head. He opened his mouth to speak, reconsidered, and said it anyway. "We're concerned that Aidan... you see, when he wakes up, he'll probably still be very weak, but Richard's funeral can't wait for him. Richard appears to have specifically mentioned for Aidan to read a eulogy though—a poem. We were gonna ask Dr. Pace. What do you think?"

"I don't want to do anything to jeopardize Aidan's recovery," she said quickly. "Not when we were so lucky as to have gotten this heart. I'm sure Richard would understand, don't you? He would have been very happy for Aidan, and wouldn't want to cause him undue stress. Am I right?" She paused. She could tell that Martin had also been very fond of Richard. It showed in the tight lines around his mouth. "Could another friend stand in? Could Dean read it?"

"Dean’s barely holding it together,“ Martin said. "It would be taxing for him if he had to address everyone there to say goodbye a second time. Say, and I'm being entirely hypothetical here... does either of you like Keats?"

"Danny has a degree in literature," Angela offered.

Behind her, Danny blushed a deep scarlet. "We weren't going to talk about that, Ang," he scolded her. "Not in the presence of a published author."

"He's read Richard's books, is what he's saying," Angela smiled. "I wasn't allowed to tell Richard, but Danny is a fan."

"It would be an honor to read at Richard's service," Danny admitted. "But surely there's a dear friend or family member more qualified."

Martin smiled. "Maybe there is, but nobody is closer to the speaker that he had in mind. I'll have to ask Dean, of course, but if you'd be willing, that would be amazing." He chuckled, casting a quick glance at Dean. "I wasn't aware Richard's work had fans."

It was funny how, after Richard was no longer among them, he found out things about him that he hadn't expected. Martin knew that Dean would want to hear this. At the same time, Martin could relate it to him later. "Which were your favorite parts?" he wanted to know.

"Do I have to have a favorite part?" Danny smiled. "It's not often that a literature professor writes such wildly popular stuff. I love them all. I can't help but wonder... was there a fifth novel in the works?"

"Oh, the novels! Right, right, I thought you meant the essays. He always talked about the essays... _of course_. Well, um, I don't know if I've got the right to tell you this, to be frank. He had contracts with a publisher, that I know, but any news about publications... Sorry. Perhaps Dean could tell you more about Rich's work?"

"—but not now," Angela said gently. "Maybe at the service, when others are talking about him. Today I'm sure the pain's still far too acute for him."

Danny nodded in agreement.

Dean completed an accurate sketch of Aidan in about twenty minutes. The entire time, Aidan didn't stir.

How was he going to tell Aidan that Richard was dead? Dean had touched Richard's cold body, yet he still had trouble not accepting that Richard might walk through the hospital room door any moment bearing a gift of some new console game for Aidan to play—donuts or bagels for all of them.

Dean's eyes teared up and he stubbornly wiped the tears away.

\- - - - -

Aidan did not wake that day. Nor the next.

It was on the morning of the third day, when Ian had taken over all preparations for the funeral—set for a week from that day, if only because Richard would have wanted Aidan to be there, but also because Dean could not last much longer than that—that Angela called Dean with the message that her son was awake.

"Have you told him about Richard yet?" Dean asked Angela. He didn't relish the task; not one bit. But coming from him seemed to be the way to do it.

"Oh, God no. He only woke up ten minutes ago," she hushed. By the sound of it, she was in a corridor somewhere and not next to Aidan. She must have anticipated Richard being mentioned. "Do you want to be the one? I could tell him, if it's too hard, but in at least a few hours. He's having breakfast right now, small bits of it. He's famished. I just thought you should know he's awake. I'll be going now, I need to be with him. Send me a message if you want me to tell him?"

"I should tell him," Dean decided. "Martin and I will tell him. Let him get used to being awake and everything, first. So, he's talking? His sats are good?"

 _Sats._ One of the many important medical terms he'd learned in the past few months. Good sats meant good oxygenation. It meant the heart wasn't being rejected.

She thought about that, but unlike Dean, Angela and Danny were concerned about Aidan more than that they had educated themselves in what ways they could help. "Oh. Well, I don't—I don't really know. I could ask Dr. Pace for you? He came in earlier to talk to Aidan. He looks relieved instead of worried, if that's anything to go by? I'm sure I could ask. He's going to be in all day." She was passed by two nurses who eyed her cellphone, and she sighed, cradling it against her ear. "I need to go, Dean. I'll call in the afternoon to tell you how he's doing, all right? Cheers."

The connection was ended before he could get another word in.

It was exhausting, Dean decided, having someone you love die. He'd never appreciated all the little things that Richard had done to make his life easier—cleaning up after dinner, taking out the trash, feeding the fish in their aquarium. Now, all those tasks—simple tasks, really—seemed insurmountable. 

It took a few days, but Dean finally went back into their bedroom. The smell of Richard was everywhere, no place more so than in Richard's closet. Dean buried his face in a rack of sport coats and cardigans and simply held them. The comfort the act brought him was both rewarding and unsettling. 

It wasn't surprising that later that day Adam found him napping, arms embracing a pillow stuffed into Richard's burgundy cardigan.

He was looking at him now, one eyebrow raised from opposite the table and a cup of tea in his hand. "Let me guess." Adam did not finish that sentence. He pointedly took another sip from his cup. His legs had been drawn up and under him on the couch, a notebook with several checklists abandoned next to him, and most bullets contained tactics on how to get Aidan's stuff out of the house.

It was not good for Dean, not good at all.

"I just... I miss him," Dean told his friend, face pink. "It helps. The smell. I can't explain it. The smell helps me sleep. And I haven't been sleeping much."

"I noticed that." Adam took another sip, pleasantly unperturbed yet sympathetic to his friend. "This house is emptier without him. But please, those things of his that were already in the laundry, do wash them eventually, you promise me that?"

"What's that you're writing?" Dean wondered, using both hands to attempt to calm his unruly curls. "New material for the act?

His friend grinned. "Leave it, your hair's a lost cause. Actually, they're for you." He pushed the notebook forward.

_\- Go on a trip and tell him he can't stay._  
 _\- Ask him to pay rent. He hasn't got a job, so he won't be able to._  
 _\- Ask his parents to look after him. Don't necessarily inform him first._  
 _\- Get someone else for Osiris._

"Excuses," Adam explained. "Some of them can be pretty useful, if I say so myself."

Dean read the list, and a slow grin spread across his face. "Ways to get rid of Aidan, obviously," he chuckled. "Adam, you're terrible. The poor guy just woke from post-surgery today. I can't very well kick him out. He has a long recovery ahead of him."

He pushed the notebook back in Adam's direction. "I like how you think, though. Destroy this list, will you?"

"Will self-destruct in your hearth in five." Adam tore out the page and tossed it in. It didn't matter, he had everything committed to memory anyway. "I wrote you that list so that yes, you actually can kick him out. He's got parents. You and he were never the best of friends, if you consider him a friend at all. Don't go giving him a place to stay on your expense just because you think you owe it to someone. You really don't."

"But I do," Dean smiled softly. "I do owe it to someone. I owe it to Richard. Now more than ever."

Adam frowned at him. "No, you don't. You do know that having him in the house means you're, one, paying for him all the way, and two, supposed to be there in case things get worse. Worst case, he's going to cost you a great deal. Keep Richard's clothing unlaundered, if you want the memory of him to stay, but don't keep that guy here because you think you owe it to someone."

"I'll do the laundry, I promise," Dean told him solemnly, "but I'm not deserting Aidan. I'm not going to lie, Ads. I resent him. I resent him _so_ much. Maybe more now than before. If Richard hadn't been rushing to get to the hospital, then..." he swiped his arm across his eyes. "But it was _me_ who told him to hurry, Adam."

He looked lost, alone on the large couch in a house too big for himself. Adam got up and sat down next to him, pulling his friend into a warm hug. He hated seeing him like this. Dean was always creative and, those few times that he wasn't, he was working hard to return to being creative. He smiled whenever Richard was near him, he could lose himself in his art, and yet he had no trouble being alone with a bottle of wine and a good movie. What Adam was seeing was someone who had lost that. "It's nobody's fault. It was an accident, and that means it happened by accident. If you want Aidan here because he reminds you of Richard, I'm fine with him staying, Dean. It's your choice in the end. I just don't want you to do something that'll make you unhappier."

"Aidan does _not_ remind me of Richard!" Dean declared. "He's the polar opposite of Richard. Richard was kind and polite and always putting others first. Aidan's... well, he's a slob. He's self-centered and rude. He flits from job to job and from man to man... ugh! No, it's not that I need Aidan to remind me of Richard. I need to see this through because it's something that Richard believed in. He believed in Aidan. He loved him. And I need to help him back onto his feet because it's what Richard would have wanted."

"Then we get him on his feet," Adam accepted. "I'll be nice to him. He won't notice anything from me, or any of the others, I promise." He kissed Dean on the cheek and got up. "Now, do you want to nap some more, or do you think it's time to see how the devil is holding up?"

"His mom was going to call me," Dean told him. "I didn't want to take away from their time together. He just woke this morning. I'm sure the last person he wants to see is me."

Adam gave him a sad look. "But he does expect Richard there."

"Yeah," Dean swallowed audibly, "which I why I need to tell him what happened."

His friend gave the phone on the table a small push in Dean's direction. He knew it wasn't giving Dean time to do things his own way, but Dean had a tendency to put things off until a later time. "Then perhaps all the faster you should get it over with."

"I can't tell him over the phone," Dean frowned, shaking his head. "No way. I heard about Richard dying over the phone. It was... it was awful."

But Adam sighed. He understood Dean's confused responses at a lot of things he thought were clear enough, these days. He had been keeping the bottles of wine away, or things would only get worse. "Like you could when you don't even have his number. Call his parents. Tell them you're coming."

\- - - - -

Adam considered himself a great friend. Snow was falling outside, and the streets were slippery as fuck—his words—and on top of that, they had suffered through throngs of people during rush hour at the Tube. All to make it to the hospital, up several floors in an elevator with hyperactive kids, and to room 410, where Angela and Danny Turner were no longer alone.

A man that neither Dean nor Adam recognized was squeezing Aidan's hand. And Aidan replied with as much as he could. The spark in his eyes was still dimmed, but it was getting there.

As soon as he saw Dean, he sat up immediately as good as he could—and groaned in pain when his body protested. "Dean! It's good to see you. Rich is parking the car?"

"Aidan," Dean smiled gently at him, "don't overdo it, all right? You've been out of it for days and had major surgery," he scolded. "Hello," he turned to the man next to Aidan's bed, offering his hand to shake, "I'm Dean. Aidan's been my roommate of sorts for the past month or so."

The man shook it. "Luke. Aidan's co-worker."

"Ex," Aidan corrected, because there was no need for political correctness in the room, "and good friend. Apparently word got around that I'm in the hospital," he tried for an apologetic smile. He plainly was still in a lot of pain, but he was trying to liven it up with a good mood wherever he could again. "Hi Ads, thanks for being able to make it. Sorry for having you all worried."

"I know you're recuperating," Adam told him, "but you already look ten times better than when I last saw you."

"Ex co-worker? Or Ex... _ex?_ " Dean raised his eyebrows in Aidan's direction, intent on keeping up the banter that made their interactions generally uncomfortable.

Angela chuckled and patted Aidan's arm. "Ex ex. One of two he told us the name of."

"It was only four months," Aidan said, "but they're terrible about questioning me when they think I've found the 'love of my life', when it was just some fun. He's only acting when he feels like it though. He's a freelancer these days."

His eyes said that although they were good friends and co-workers, it had definitely not been just 'some fun' for Aidan at the time. But that was not something his mother needed to know. Aidan smiled at Dean. "Sorry about interrupting your drawing for Osiris. I kind of really fucked that up, didn't I?"

"It's nothing we can't pick up again," Dean assured him. "And you're going to have quite an impressive scar as well. Listen, Aidan... I was hoping we could talk a bit. Just the two of us."

Angela and Danny got up as if scripted, and Adam gave Dean's shoulder a squeeze as if to ask _are you sure you don't want me to stay?_

Disappointment was writ on Aidan's face. He gestured Luke out of the room as well, before resting his head back against the pillow. This was going to be that talk, the one that established that they weren't friends even if they pretended to be for others; or the one where Dean told Aidan that now that he had a heart, it was best if he found another place to stay. Richard definitely wouldn't hear of it, but Richard was oddly not with Dean. "What is it?" he asked.

"I..." Dean's throat was suddenly dry, "I came to visit you the morning after your surgery," was what came out of his mouth. "I drew you while you were sleeping," he reached into his satchel and pulled out his sketch of Aidan post-op. 

Aidan, who wasn't as observant as Dean on his best days, couldn't help but notice the tense lines around Dean's eyes and mouth. He looked exhausted. And clearly all that concern wasn't over him.

"I didn't have any color pencils with me," Dean continued, "but already your color looked a million times better than the day before. I wish I could have colored it."

"Out with it, Dean," sighed the man in the bed, his eyes closed. "Mom already told me you drew me. That can't be why you sent her away."

Dean slowly slid the drawing back into his bag. "I don't know how to tell you this, Aidan, so I'm just going to say it before I lose my strength." He took a long, slow breath in and exhaled again. "The day you were brought here to the hospital, Richard was... he was _killed_ in an auto accident." In the bag on his lap, Dean's hand closed around the bottle of Alprazolam like a talisman. He'd be needing another of these before the day wound down.

Expectantly, he looked up at Aidan, unsure if he had been heard and understood.

Aidan's eyes shot open. "No, he's not." He sat up haltingly, accusing eyes boring into Dean—although they faltered when Dean remained still. "I would have known it if he was. That's fucking rubbish, O'Gorman. Now where is he?"

All the same, fear was gripping his heart.

"His _body_ ," Dean's voice cracked, "is at W. Uden & Sons Funeral Home. It's what he wanted. He preplanned everything. What he wanted to wear, where the service would be held, the cremation. From what I understand, he has a will too."

Dean's face showed no signs of falsehood. Nor did Richard seem to be hiding just outside the room to prank him. 

"It's real, Aidan. He's really, really gone. I'm sorry," Dean swallowed thickly and a tear ran down his cheek.

Aidan stared at him for a long time. The implications were beginning to sink in; Richard was never coming over again. Aidan would never again visit him and Dean, laugh at one of Richard's nerdy literature jokes or feel chastised and yet strengthened with a kiss on his forehead. Richard's body was out there somewhere, and it would never again wake.

He would no longer see that smile.

Richard had died, and Aidan hadn't.

Tears welled in his eyes, and all of a sudden he gripped his chest. He couldn't breathe, he literally—

The heart monitor started beeping.

"Wait!" Dean shot to his feet. "Aidan, no! You don't get to do this! I won't be responsible for killing you both!" Dean cried and took both of Aidan's hands in his own. "Breathe with me... in and out. C'mon...."

Aidan scowled at Dean, doing his very best to follow the mantra of calming down his breathing as he had done in the weeks he had spent at Richard and Dean's, whenever he felt stifled. Slow breathing meant a slower heartbeat, which meant better oxygenation. He knew the trick.

All his efforts aside, he could already hear footsteps running in the hallway. "What do you mean, you're responsible?"

"I called him, don't you see?" Dean's eyes never left Aidan's. "I called him to come see you. We thought you were dying. _Hurry,_ I said. I told him to h-h-hurry..." Dean began to cry, but didn't have a chance to say anything else to Aidan. He was gently but forcibly pushed aside and out of the room by two nurses and the doctor on duty.

"I'm sorry," he told Angela and Danny, who were told not to come into the room. "I told him."

They did not register his words, partly because they knew he'd be telling Aidan, and part because in the hospital room, behind closed doors, Aidan was breaking down. The nurses were trying to calm him down, but he was nearly in hysterics. He thrashed about his legs and cried for them to leave him be. It was writ in the doctor's eyes that if he didn't stop soon, he was going to seriously hurt himself.

And just like that, it stopped. Aidan's body slackened. His eyes were in tears and he wore a mask of grimace while his body sank back into the bed, defeated—only seconds before a sedative would have been injected. His heartbeat continued to be erratic and fluctuating though, and it took fifteen minutes before one of the nurses opened the room.

"I'm sorry," she said. "It's best if he doesn't receive any more visitors for the day. He needs to rest."

"Let him in," Aidan pleaded to the other nurse. "Dean. Let him in. I need—I need to know. I can't rest until I know."


	9. I'll Always Be With You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aidan learns more about the accident. Martin consoles Dean.

Dean, who had reached into his bag and extracted a half a Alprazolam during the fracas, hurriedly sneaked the dry little half circle into his mouth. He chased it with a swig from a bottle of water. "I don't know..." he shook his head at the nurses outside Aidan's room, who didn't look so understanding after the fit he had gotten Aidan into. "I told him about a good friend of ours who died a few days ago. M—my husband."

The nurse paused. "...My condolences. Were he and Mr. Turner close?" She cast a look over her shoulder. "I wouldn't mind letting you in for five minutes, but only if one of us can stay, for Mr. Turner's sake. Please try not to upset him again. He's only woken up today, he's got a long road of recovery ahead of him."

"They were very close," Dean admitted. Of course they were. Richard had loved Aidan like a kid brother. "I would appreciate a little more time with him, especially if it helps him feel better."

She stepped aside, shared a look with her colleagues and nodded. "Five minutes, no longer."

Aidan reached for Dean's hand. His grip was weak, though he insisted. "You said auto accident?" He didn't dare raise his voice, lest it made it all more real. Aidan's eyes were lined with red, and his lip was trembling. He was on the brink of breaking into tears once again. "I need to know, Dean. What happened to him?"

"Richard left class as soon as he heard you had been brought in. The accident happened on Oxford Road, only a few blocks from the college. I don't have all the details." Dean felt a tightness building up in his chest as he spoke. "A car hit his from the side and his neck was broken. He died not long after. The police assured me that he felt little to no pain."

"He thought I was going to die," whispered Aidan. "And instead he did. That's not fair. I was supposed to be the one. Why did he...oh, why did he do that? How come there's suddenly a heart for me, anyway? Richard was supposed to be the first one to know about it." He looked up at Dean through watery eyes. "Was I that bad? Please don't tell me it was something silly..."

"You would have died very soon if that heart hadn't become available. The doctors were saying you'd never leave the hospital again," Dean told him, "and that's the truth. "Rich thought he was coming here to say goodbye."

Aidan's eyes closed in pain. It was not the way it was supposed to go. He should never have woken, if that meant Richard would not have gotten himself into that accident. "It's not your fault. If you think it is, we share that burden. Is he—can I see him one last time? They say I've been asleep for three days. Did I miss the funeral?"

"We've set it for the weekend. Nearly a week from now." Aidan's words—or maybe it was the Alprazolam—made his chest feel light. "In Richard's instructions, he made a request that you read something—it's a poem that he loved."

"Keats. The bastard is making me read Keats." Somehow, Aidan couldn't help but smile through his tears. It was so typically Richard to do something like that. "It's Keats, isn't it? That one about death and waking up. He always said it would be a great eulogy, so I always refused to read it."

"I haven't been able to look it up yet," Dean told him. "I—I'm not ready. Richard's lawyer's making all the arrangements and purchases associated with the funeral. I can't. I'm not ready for this, Aidan," he sniffled. "We were supposed to die old, and die together, in some cozy cabin somewhere."

And they were, Aidan could say nothing else. Richard and Dean were supposed to be the role models. They had been together for so long and had still loved each other, had still found time to share that love and express it the way someone in his first years of commitment would. "Don't cry. I don't know what I'd do if you'd cry. He's—"

And then they were both crying.

Richard would never come back.

He would never do all the things he had still wanted to do with his life. He had had so much yet to live for.

Aidan wanted to tell him he loved him, if only to have Richard hear it one more time. He should have said it more often. But it was too late.

"I'll read it," Aidan whispered. "Send it to me later. I'll read it. I don't care what I'll have to do to get there; I'll be there."

"I won't allow you to do anything that compromises your recovery," Dean said sternly. "I mean it, Aidan. Richard would have my head if I pushed you too hard. Or if you pushed yourself."

That brought another sad smile on Aidan's features. "I know."

He looked over at the remaining nurse and nodded. Aidan needed to process this on his own. Dean had told him what he could, in the time they were given. It was the most horrible news he could have delivered him, and Aidan wanted him out of the room even if he knew he was only shooting empty shells at the messenger.

She escorted Dean to the door and closed it behind him. "You should have consulted a doctor before telling him that," she admonished. "He has had enough visitors for the day. I'll ask you all to leave him to rest now. That includes you," she directed at Aidan's parents and at Luke.

"I'm sorry." It seemed to be all Dean could say lately. 

And he was sorry. Sorry that Richard was gone. Sorry he'd had his life disrupted by all these near-strangers living in his home. Sorry he'd ever allowed Aidan to become so close to Richard, because if Richard hadn't been rushing over to the hospital to see his precious Aidan, he'd still be alive...

But Dean couldn't allow himself to finish that thought. Aidan wasn't driving the car that had hit Richard. He couldn't help being sick. And the guilt of the feelings that were consuming him cause his eyes and stomach to burn.

"He needed to know," Dean said at last. "Richard was his best friend. Can you imagine if he picked up the paper tomorrow morning and read the obituary?"

There came unexpected support from Angela when she placed a hand on his shoulder and replied, "It's alright. He needed to know, and I am glad you found the courage to do it now. But seeing how he responded... The nurse is right, we'd better leave him to recover now or I'm afraid we'll make it worse." From the window, she could see her son crying to himself. "Come," she said to let him grieve in peace, "I'll make dinner tonight. It's the least I can do. Luke, are you staying?"

But he declined her offer. "I've got plans, I'm afraid. Thanks for the offer."

"Adam?" she asked.

Dean gave Adam a look that conveyed _I would rather be home alone with Richard, but this is my life now._ Adam could see the heartbreak in his eyes. Would Dean survive this? Not without friends, he wouldn't.

"I'd love to," Adam plastered on a grin. "I'll bring dessert. But I do have a show at nine, so I can't stay too late."

"Come over anytime," Dean hugged him and whispered in his ear, "You don't have to do this."

"I absolutely do," Adam whispered back, hugging him tighter.

\- - - - -

That night stretched into morning as the longest hours of Dean's life.

Aidan's parents were afraid to leave him alone, so they stayed up and flitted around him wherever he went in the house. They were always around and kept an eye on the door when he took a shower. They didn't go to bed around eleven like they normally did, either. No, it wasn't until Dean would fall asleep himself that they planned to leave him alone.

In the end, Martin was called over for the sake of Dean's sanity.

It being past midnight when he rang the doorbell, he stood in the hallway apologizing to Angela and Danny for the late hour, said nothing of the true purpose of his presence other than checking up on his friend, and ushered Dean upstairs to the bedroom almost at once.

"Try and get some sleep," he encouraged Aidan's parents. "You'll be up early again."

Then it was just Martin and Dean.

"Why is everyone treating me like I'm made of glass?" Dean asked his friend, sitting down on the settee at the foot of he and Richard's bed and starting to unbutton his oxford shirt. "I feel like a fool. I don't need babysitters. I want..." he began, but his voice trailed off.

"I'm not a babysitter," shrugged Martin. "Pretend I'm not here. I can go to sleep and leave you alone all night. I'm only here to make Aidan's parents feel better so they get off your lip."

"Do you want to sleep here, with me?" Dean offered. "I'm not going to molest you or anything," he chuckled. "We— _I_ —do have a very comfortable bed. We could pretend we're at sleep-away camp. I never went to camp, so I'm not really sure what to do. But I could fake it." 

Martin could tell that Dean was barely holding it together. That, he thought, was exactly why Dean needed someone with him. Not like a babysitter; nevertheless, Martin was sure that Dean shouldn't be left to his own devices, not just yet. "Weren't summer camps for rich kids anyway?" he shrugged. "I've got all night and morning, I brought a toothbrush, and you're not the first man I've shared a bed with. Trust me, I'll be fine."

Dean nearly cried just from the relief. As much as he'd wanted to be alone, having Martin around was never, ever a hardship. Despite his somewhat neurotic behavior—which Dean could appreciate—he always knew the right things to say. And when he didn't, he didn't say anything. Dean liked that too.

"We're the rich kids now," Dean reminded him. "Can I set the alarm for you?"

"Let's not?" Martin wriggled his nose, mischief in his eyes. "We don't need to be anywhere tomorrow. How about we just see how long we can stay in bed for once? I brought whiskey for a nightcap, in case you're thinking you might have trouble sleeping in." He reached for his bag, got the bottle out and excused himself to the bathroom to get changed.

Upon returning, he was wearing the world's most terrible baby blue pajamas—with the world's most serious expression—and pointed at Richard's side. "That's my part of the camp bed?"

"If you want." Dean suddenly looked a little worried. "I put on brand new sheets, got rid of the pillows and I flipped the mattress, but I can still smell him. It's worse on that side. I would prefer not to switch. Sleeping here, well, it's hard without him. It still feels as if he could still come home, you know? God, I wish he would. Whiskey, then?" he looked up expectantly. 

"Whiskey." The bottle passed hands. "You know—and you're going to slap me for this but please don't—maybe it's better if you sleep on his side. Think about it. It's not going to continue to smell like Richard, Dean, and I'd rather you soak it in now than that it turns into some half Richard half Martin smell and you're going to hate me for messing that cologne up."

"I can't sleep there," Dean said, voice tight. "End of discussion. Pour me a drink, Freeman."

At least Martin had tried. He didn't care either way, and sat on the bed while pouring Dean his first share of the alcohol. He made himself comfortable against the headboard, the sheets over his cold feet, and pulled a face. "Don't tell me about all the things that happened in this bed, right where I'm sitting," he warned. "If you do, I've got some horror stories of my own."

Dean drank the finger's worth of whiskey in one quick shot. "Ah!" he grimaced. "That'll shake the old Etch-a-Sketch." He held out the glass for more. "What?" he smiled at Martin's questioning look. "You're staying over. You're sleeping next to me. What's the worst that could happen?"

"Oh, I don't know," Martin feigned innocence, pouring him a new glass. "I remember that story when Aidan came over and you ended up falling asleep literally _on_ him."

"We were drinking," Dean offered in his defense. "Someone gave Rich a nice bottle of scotch for Christmas one year. Aidan was over on New Year's and we got into it. I, for one, paid for it the next morning. And I definitely don't remember falling asleep on or near Aidan that night. I only remember waking up in a world of pain."

Martin grinned and fished his cellphone from his bag. He browsed through something until handing his phone over. There, quite shamelessly, Dean was sleeping on Aidan's chest. Aidan was looking up at the camera with a sleepy, amused laugh, but it wasn't a mocking one. He rather looked like he didn't know what was going on, himself.

Dean chuckled, recalling all too vividly not only his discomfort at waking up in that position, but the subsequent vomiting that followed throughout the day.

"Never again," he vowed, leaving Martin to figure out if he was referring to the drinking or the sleeping on top of Aidan. "Everything in moderation."

"Good, good," nodded Martin as he lay down on Richard's side, "that means my virtue is safe." He handed the bottle over and got comfortable. "I've also got some pictures of you falling asleep on Richard. And on Adam. Actually, you've got a bit of a habit to fall asleep on anyone close enough. Though I don't mind. I promise you, no pictures tonight."

Dean chugged back his second shot, already feeling a slight buzz from the first. He'd had one-and-a-half of Ned's Alprazolam that day, so it was probably compounding a little. Either way, he felt loose in his skin, as if he might be able to sleep. Martin was a true friend; he and Richard were so lucky to have met him.

"I'd like it," he whispered into the dark, "if you could send me those photos."

"Done deal," mumbled Martin in reply.

\- - - - -

When sleep at last took hold, it was hours after Aidan had begun waiting for it, left alone in his room. They had bothered to give him painkillers, but nothing eased the ache in his heart—not the emotional ache, at least. He had cried until his tears had run out, and then tried to do the same for his rampant thoughts.

It wasn't a pleasant emptiness for a change, until the memory of Richard returned in dreams. Where he was still alive. A soothing note crept into Aidan's breaths.

In his dreams—for somehow he understood that they were—he reached out for his lost friend and held him close. It was like they were really touching, like Richard was actually there. "Don't go," Aidan whispered. "Stay with me—with _us_."

But Richard smiled at him like he was a kid who had told him a small, obvious but trivial lie. He kissed him on his forehead. "I know you don't care about me returning for Dean. He's more of an acquaintance than a friend, is he? Don't worry, I've always known. You tried, for me. Please be kind on him, now that I'm no longer there. None of that making him uncomfortable."

"You know I can't promise you that," smiled Aidan. "He's fun when he's embarrassed."

"Not for a while, Aidan."

"I can try."

The memory of Richard laughed at that, and it felt real. Though every time Aidan focused on the details to recall them later, they eluded him. "I'll miss you," said he, pulling him closer. "I miss you already. Don't go. Why did you have to go and do that? You weren't supposed to get killed."

Richard kept quiet. Subjected to Aidan's dreamworld rules, there was nothing he could say.

"Will I see you again?" Aidan asked him. "Can I dream of you again?"

At that, Richard lowered his head, amused. "I don't know. They are your dreams, not mine. I'd like it if you did, but you forget what I said. I'm always with you, Aidan, in here." He tapped Aidan's chest. "Think of me, don't forget me, and I'll always be with you, even just a part of me."

He kissed the corner of Aidan's mouth, but left it there. "They're your dreams, but they're still subjected to your reality," he whispered when Aidan made an effort to shift his face and make a decent kiss out of that. "My heart is with you, but it does not belong only to you. And yours no longer beats for me."

Tears welled up. Somehow, the dream was ending. It was time to say goodbye. "I could try," he smiled through his tears. "At least tell me you knew. You knew, didn't you? At first, before we became friends?"

Richard remained cryptically silent on the matter. "Goodbye, Aidan. Be good to Dean."

"Will I see you again if I am not?"

"Be good to him."

"I don't want to."

"I love you, Aidan."

And then he woke up.

Aidan lay in bed for a long time contemplating what he had just seen. He could still feel Richard's touch, but the specifics were fading fast. Chained to a hospital bed by the wound in his chest, he could not run for a piece of paper to write anything down. So he forced himself to memorize the important parts.

Richard was with him.

Be good to Dean.

Figure out if there was a way that he could get that dream again.

His heart beat a steady pace in his chest. It was calming.

Aidan tried if he could reach for his phone. His mother had been a darling when she put it on the charger half an hour after he woke up. When he managed to without pushing it, he wrote a message to Dean.

_Had a dream about Richard. He said he loves you. Just thought you might want to know._

Richard would be proud of his effort to be kind on the husband his death had left a widower.

Aidan felt a bit better when he pressed send.

The soft _ding_ of a text arriving roused Dean just as he was drifting off. He read what Aidan had sent and scowled.

_I don't need your dreams to tell me how much Richard loved me,_ he began typing, then deleted it with an annoyed huff. What good would it do to be mean to Aidan now? What would Richard have thought of that?

Any why hadn't Richard come to _his_ dreams since his death?

Instead he typed back, _Thank you Aidan. I know he loved you too. Gnite._

He rolled over and was asleep before he had a chance to pull up the covers.


	10. Where There's a Will...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard's funeral, Dean believes, is the hardest thing he'll ever have to face. He's wrong. 
> 
> Meanwhile, Aidan has another dream.

The scent of orchids filled the air, bringing with it a teaser of spring. Outside the glass of the conservatory windows, small flakes of snow blew gently past. 

"I'd hoped for some sun," Dean said to Martin, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of the burgundy cardigan sweater he was wearing. "But Richard would have really liked the snow. He always got cuddly when it snowed."

The sweater belonged to Richard. Richard's obituary had instructed those who attended his memorial to wear a cardigan in his honor. Dean had laughed so hard at those instructions that he'd cried. When he went into Richard's closet, he found no less than twenty three cardigan sweaters, in various hues. The smell in that enclosed space — the scent of Richard — had been so painfully strong that Dean couldn't bear it. He'd grabbed the slate blue sweater that Richard had requested he be wearing for the memorial... and another for himself. The smell still clung to the sweater today, to a lesser extent; enough to feel Richard's presence, at least. 

_This is as bad as it's going to get,_ Dean told himself, _seeing all these people today—holding it together. If you can do this, you can do anything._

Richard's body was across the room in a beautiful silver casket with a lining of the palest grey silk. Dean had spent a little time there earlier, before the guests had started arriving. But once Richard's parents arrived — cold to him and seemingly unperturbed at the death of their only son — Dean needed to move away. He'd opted for a warmer spot, closer to the open bar — also Richard's idea.

Angela pushed Aidan around in a wheelchair. Dr. Pace had given him leave to attend the funeral, but he was still too weak to be stressing his heart with physical exercise.

Angela had given him his time alone to see Richard before they finally closed the coffin for good. It had nearly jeopardized his continued presence at Richard's funeral. To see him so still, to see a lid closed over him and to know Richard would never open his eyes again—it was a painful reality check, and he had needed to go outside for a deep breath.

Now, Angela moved him to his position at the front of the rows and held his hand. He squeezed hers back firmly. People began to fill the space for the final ceremony.

"It's surreal," he admitted to her. A crumpled piece of paper lay in his lap. He had written down the words and had wanted to throw them away several times in the sterile hospital room. "It's not supposed to be this way. I don't think I should stay in Richard's house when this is over, Mum." 

"I think you should," she said back immediately. "Dean's barely hanging on. He needs you. I can't imagine my state if I lost your father. I can't bear to think about it. But, I assure you, when people stop visiting, and bringing over casseroles, and calling and being worried about Dean... that's when the loss of his husband is really going to hit him. And that is when he's going to need you the most." She wiped away a tear from her face. "Be there for him. Promise me you will." 

"I think he'd rather want to invite other people that keep him company," Aidan muttered. He shut up then, his eyes moving over the coffin. It wasn't respectful to Richard to discuss this here, and the dream still lay heavy on his mind.

The ceremony started only minutes later. He tried to keep himself strong and not collapse. Medication helped take the edge off things, but his emotions were still raw by the time he was asked to come forward.

Aidan unfurled the piece of paper. He took a deep breath. 

“ _When I Have Fears That I May Cease To Be,_ by John Keats,” Aidan said into the microphone. He realized his hands were trembling, so he lay the paper down on the podium in front of him.

_"When I have fears that I may cease to be_  
 _Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,_  
 _Before high-piled books, in charactery,_  
 _Hold like rich garners the full ripen'd grain;_  
 _When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,_  
 _Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,_  
 _And think that I may never live to trace_  
 _Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;_  
 _And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,_  
 _That I shall never look upon thee more,_  
 _Never have relish in the faery power_  
 _Of unreflecting love;—then on the shore_  
 _Of the wide world I stand alone, and think_  
 _Till love and fame to nothingness do sink. "_

Dean recognized the poem immediately. It was one of the first Richard had asked them to read and discuss in his class, self-servingly because it had always been his favorite. So clearly could he remember that day he'd first seen Richard: freshly-shaven, blue eyes as bright as sapphires and full of fire as he talked about Keats.

Dean also remembered thinking, _what a knob._ A combination of a laugh and a sob escaped him and he reached for Martin's and Adam’s hands. 

"Thank you, Aidan," Graham McTavish, who was serving as the emcee of the non-religious memorial, put a gentle hand on Aidan's shoulder and signaled for Angela to bring his wheelchair over to the podium. "Those of us who knew Richard knew that he was passionate about organ donation. I can think of no better living embodiment of Richard's belief in action than Aidan here, who was fortunate enough to receive a new heart on the very day Richard passed. Richard would have been overjoyed. He encourages each and every one of you to sign up for the program, if he hadn't already talked you into it." The room burst into much-needed relieved laughter.

"At this time, the formal part of Richard's memorial service has ended," Graham told those assembled. "Richard's favorite light refreshments, dim sum and rumaki, will be served in the back—and, of course, the bar is open,” he said, eyes twinkling. “Thank you all for coming.”

Graham gave a nod and the light music, which had been playing earlier, began again. The music had been an eclectic mix of 40s and The Police — Richard had had a deep passion for Sting's lyrics — with the occasional classical or rap piece thrown in. Every song held a special memory for Dean. He could hardly bear to hear most of them.

"I think I may get another drink," he whispered to Adam, slipping into the aisle.

Aidan was gone from the funeral without anyone noticing him leave, when he knew that there was nothing more he could do. He did not want to wait until the end. The coffin was closed, and with it his last memory of Richard. He could not stay and make it his strongest memory of the best man that had been in his life.

He allowed his mother to take him to Richard's house for a short stop to pick up some belongings, then was returned to the hospital, where a cold bed and a sterile atmosphere accepted him back into their midst.

"Thank you," Dean whispered to the bartender, who, knowing he was the spouse of the dead man, had given him an extra-large amount of vodka. Dean turned, drink in hand, and ran directly into Richard's mother. He barely had time to hold his drink at arm's length to avoid splashing her.

"Margaret!" he exclaimed. He'd said few words to this woman in his life. He'd always held out hope that someday his mother-in-law would be the kind of woman his own mother was not—someone loving and friendly. But Margaret Armitage was neither of those things. Not towards him. He followed up with, "I-I'm sorry."

"Well, you very well should be," said she, lifted her chin and walked away from him.

Her words stung. No matter how many times she made him feel insignificant—and it had happened several times a year since he and Richard had been together—he never got over the disappointing surprise of it. But Richard was always there to ease away the sting once his parents had gone back home. But not today. Not ever again.

Dean’s own parents had not answered the phone nor responded to the message he left the day he told them Richard had died. Their absence saddened him too, but didn’t surprise him.

Tears, which came all too readily anymore, welled in Dean's eyes. He sped up his steps up and lay a hand on Margaret’s arm and turned her bodily back to face him. "Richard was a very happy and successful man," he told her. "He was kind and generous. But most importantly, he was happy. Right up until the moment he died. And I was happy. We were in love. Nothing you can say or do can change that. I hope you and John have a safe trip home," he added, then turned away to return to his friends. His stomach was in knots.

"That looked like a frightening encounter with the Wicked Witch of the West," Adam joked when Dean sat down shakily next to him.

"It was."

"Have you planned to drop a house on her yet? I could help." Adam patted Dean's shoulder. "It would be my pleasure. But I refuse to think they came here if not to mourn for the same person. They wouldn't be here if they didn't care."

"Of course they care," Dean sighed. "Richard was their son. He was to be the father of their grandchildren. You know the drill. Enter _me,_ destroyer of their dreams." Dean took a long sip of his vodka and cranberry juice. "You've got a great mum, Adam. So does Aidan," he noted, looking around to check on the younger man. "Did they leave?"

The crowd was slowly dispersing. Some remained for a personal goodbye, but fewer and fewer remained. The day was soon to be over, and with it the last day that Dean would share with Richard, the last moments before cremation.

Richard had asked for his ashes to be scattered on the sea, and a trip had been booked to St. Ives, luck would wryly have it.

Adam shrugged. "Fifteen minutes or so ago. He was looking green, so I think they went for some fresh air and decided not to come back. You know, Richard was gay well before you made his legs go weak. What they're doing isn't fair. Ignore them. You probably won't ever hear of them again."

"Well, there is one more thing," Dean told him. "The will. The reading is tomorrow afternoon. Some of us have been requested to attend. Only a few. Richard's parents will be there. Martin, Aidan... and me. Maybe, after that, I can start trying to move on."

While he was speaking, Ian approached them. "This is Richard's wedding band and pinky ring," the attorney handed the box to Dean. "Richard asked that they be put on a gold chain for you. You can, of course, do with them what you wish."

"When will he be...?" Dean accepted the small, flat box, "you know."

"The body will be taken to the crematorium as soon as the guests leave. Only you are allowed to accompany him, and there you can say your final goodbyes, Dean."

Dean nodded, looking for all the world like a frightened child.

"I'll see he gets home after," Ian told Adam, who looked concerned. "It's part of Richard's instructions."

"I'm glad he wrote his instructions." They would have been relying on guesses as to what Richard would have wanted his funeral to be like otherwise—though it was unsettling to know that Richard had given his own death so much thought, like he had seen it coming. "Can you imagine," Adam wondered, "that someone out there lives because of him? Someone out there might have a liver he needed, like Aidan's heart? Richard is no longer here, but do you ever think that maybe he was adamant about being a donor because it meant he would live on in a different way?"

"I suppose," Dean ruminated. "He was always obsessed with literature and poetry dealing death and immortality. But he's an _author,_ " Dean reminded him. "His work will live on after him. But yes, I imagine a blind man out there is seeing because of Richard. And someone else breathing better. Do you suppose his heart was damaged too badly in the accident to have been used by someone? They say that very specific criteria have to be met for a heart to be viable. Auto accidents don't generally yield useful hearts."

Dean's attention was taken from Adam as Graham, Ned and Martin all came to say their goodbyes—with promises to check up on him regularly. Margaret and John, thankfully, did not say anything to Dean after they'd said their own, private goodbyes next to the silver casket. 

That left most of the people gone when they closed the door behind him.

"Some donors only offer certain organs are up for donation." Adam bit his nail, an old nervous habit. He glanced between Dean and Ian. "Like the eyes, I've heard people don't like to donate the eyes, because they're very personal. The heart similarly. Imagine the chance that—" But he shut up there, before Dean could ruminate on what was potentially a highly poisonous thought. "Oh, there's nobody else left. Well, that's my cue. Do you want be to drop by later?"

The thought of Richard's beautiful blue eyes was nearly Dean's undoing. Never again would they gaze upon him with passion, or mirth. Never again would he look into them and feel protected and safe. 

"I love you, Adam," he threw his arms around his friend and hugged him fiercely, "but tonight I'm going to need to be alone. I'll speak with you after the will's read. I know you love hearing about Margaret and her drama."

Behind them, the catering company was rolling away their metal trays and the undertaker was rolling Richard's casket towards the door. 

"I must go," Dean told him, with a final squeeze.

When he turned, Ian placed a hand on his shoulder and gave him a nod. "I'll be here when you're ready to go. Take whatever time you need."

\- - - - -

The house was empty that night. Aidan's parents were staying at the hospital, and neither Martin nor Adam was there, by request. That night, Dean was alone for the first time.

Little did he know that somewhere streets away, in his hospital room, Aidan was thinking over sending a text message. He had been staring at his screen every few minutes, ignoring his mother's requests to get some sleep, a message half written on his screen.

Dean was the only one he could talk to. Aidan felt empty inside after the funeral. Like Richard had still been there before, but now his light was doused. He cared little for the reading of the will and planned to send his mother to go in his stead, but for some reason that didn't diminish that he felt an inexplicable need to make sure Dean was okay.

He also knew that Dean would most likely not need his concern at all.

 _How are you feeling?_ , became his safe words of choice when he finally pressed send.

The house was terribly quiet, except for the sound of the refrigerator running in the kitchen and flames cracking in the fireplace. Dean lay on the couch in a pair of flannel pajamas staring at the licking flames. The _ding_ of his phone roused him from his reverie. He hadn't realized he was dozing off.

_How are you feeling?_

Dean raised his eyebrows at the question. So many people had asked that over the past few days, but he'd lied to all of them about the answer. But Aidan wasn't here, looking him in the eyes and hoping for happy news.

 _I feel as if nothing will ever be okay again,_ Dean texted back, and returned to watching the flames.

_I know that feeling. They've been keeping me on sedatives since I heard, but it doesn't change that he's gone._

Aidan was not afraid of saying it out loud. Tears still came when he thought about Richard no longer smiling at his stories, no longer eager to hear about his auditions. The slip of paper with Keats' poem was on the table next to him like a small haven of momentary calm, oddly enough. It was for Richard's memorial, but it was also a gift from him.

_I remember how bad Richard would feel when you were upset..._

_I was never really upset with Richard around,_ Dean sent back. _Not really. He kept me from being the worst version of myself. Not sure who's going to do that now._

Dean hit send and immediately regretted it. "You don't need to know this, Aidan," he muttered. "Why am I telling you this?" Dean hadn't had a drink or taken any Alprazolam since coming home. But talking to Aidan, even like this, was taking his mind off his loneliness. 

Aidan looked over at his parents, both of them half asleep and yet there for him.

 _You have your pick of friends,_ replied he. Unlike Aidan, whose friends were many but shallow—bar the one exception of Richard—Dean had always been surrounded by a small group of good people. _I'm worried about the same thing. My parents are over the ocean again soon. Do you want me to find a place of my own again?_

Dean gave a small chuckle. He could almost hear Adam's voice in his head. "He's opened the window for you," Adam would say. "All you have to do is push him out of it."

And yet.

 _No,_ Dean found himself texting. _You need to stay until you feel up to working again, at the very least._ Now the ball's in your court, Turner...

 _As soon as I could. You don't have to do this. Thank you._ Aidan smiled to the phone. Dean and he might not get along splendidly, but he wasn't a bad person. _Will you finish the Osiris painting?_

 _Haven't been in the studio since you went to hosp,_ Dean sent back. _It's all right. Maybe I was meant to take a break._

Dean looked over at the clock. _It's late._

 _It is._ Aidan wasn't ready to go to sleep yet, but apparently Dean had less trouble with that. He shouldn't stop him. _Goodnight._

 _You are coming to the will reading, yes?_ Dean responded.

_The doctor says I need rest. Mum comes in my place. Sorry._

_It's ok. Just want you to recover. Gnite._

Aidan placed his phone away. He closed his eyes and breathed out.

\- - - - -

Sheets were the thing that first blurred into view, folds in sheets that were not his own. Along came a pillow, and finally a body that lay on those sheets. A man he had not shared a bed with, he knew that for sure, although he was someone he knew.

It was all very hazy.

He stretched out a hand to touch. Skin pressed against his palm. Needing more, he leaned in and pressed his lips against that of the man’s shoulder. There was a definite fire in his loins, and oh, he longed to consume.

"You're beautiful."

The body next to him, flesh warm and naked, sprinkled with soft thatches of golden hair gleaming in the firelight, turned to face him. 

"I thought you said you were sleepy," Dean leaned up on one elbow, innocent blue eyes just shy of daring him to go further.

"Look at you," he whispered. "How could I stay sleepy at the sight of you naked? I haven't slept beside you in ten days. So I _thought_ I was sleepy..."

He rolled on top of Dean with ease and smiled. "I missed you." Their hips rolled together, and he thought that Dean looked amazing with his eyes closed in bliss, chewing his lips. He looked amazing when his hands tugged his lover's legs about him and he latched his lips onto Dean's left ear.

Beneath him, Dean shuddered in pleasure, squeezing him with his strong thigh muscles. "I got awfully lonely," the blond confessed, one hand stroking his back and the other cupping his face. "But I knew you were coming back," his eyes studied Aidan's face intently, as if to memorize him. "I need you so much."

Aidan engaged him in a lasting kiss—the kind that spoke of intimacy nourished over the span of years. There was nothing but admiration and love, alongside a fiery need to get as close to him as he could. He continued to watch him when their lips parted and his hands moved to prepare Dean for their union.

"I love you."

Aidan gasped awake.

Square cork ceiling tiles and the beeping of a heart monitor greeted him.

These were not the sheets.

These were not the pillows.

He clasped a hand before his mouth in horror. What had just happened to him?

\- - - - -

Dean sat in one of the six comfortable leather chairs in Ian's office, trying vainly not to fall asleep. Even though he'd come home from the crematorium exhausted, he still had trouble sleeping. He was up well after two trying to pick apart his decision to let Aidan stay.

As Ian read over the contents of Richard's will—his final gifts to his family and friends—Dean still maintained the hope that this was all some elaborate joke and Richard could still come breezing in the door.

 _Oh, I got you all good!_ his blue eyes would be alight with mirth. 

But Richard never came.

To his parents, Richard bequeathed some property he owned in Scotland. It was a beautiful cottage by a lake where he and Dean often vacationed. Richard must have known Dean would never want to go back there again.

To Martin was given Richard's collection of antique and rare books, and his library furniture. Martin snuffled his acceptance, clearly very pleased.

Dean, unsurprisingly, had received everything else, including royalties from Richard's already published books. 

"There are, however," Ian raised his finger so those around the table would pay attention, "two very important items gifted to Mr. Aidan Turner, who, today, is represented by his mother, Angela. The first item Richard has bequeathed to Aidan is the townhouse at 1602 Cranborn Street. He will also be gifted a stipend for its upkeep."

"M-my house?" Dean whispered.

"Richard's house," Ian reminded him. "Aidan's now."

Angela too stared at Ian—as did Martin. It was a large house, too large for one person alone, and to gift it to someone who had currently no job was a risky thing to do, even if it was fully paid for. "Aidan was dying when Richard passed away," his mother frowned. "Why would he take that risk? I doubt Aidan has made up his own will. The house would have passed on to other people." Which would, in that case, most likely have been Aidan's parents.

And it kicked Dean out of the house he lived in. That could not have been Richard's intention.

She turned to Dean. "Is there any other place you can stay?"

Dean could barely breathe. Richard had given their home to Aidan. 

"Of course he has a place to stay," Martin chimed in immediately. "With me. With Adam. Any of us would be glad to take him in."

Dean's throat was so tight he could barely get the words out. "Everywhere in my home, all I can do is think about Richard and how much I miss him. I see him everywhere. Richard was trying to help me, don't you see?" He reached for Martin's hand and squeezed it gratefully. "Now I can get that studio apartment I always wanted."

"A house?" John Armitage huffed. "Doesn't seem like the kind of thing you will to someone who’s just a _friend._ "

John's implication was clear enough. Dean felt as if a hand were reaching into his ribcage and squeezing his heart.

Angela scoffed at once at the insinuation. "You mean you're jealous that as parents, you're not the ones getting it." Dean's reaction to John's callous words had not gone past her, though she was sure that Aidan had not actually been having a thing with Richard. Everyone could see how much he loved Aidan, sure, and Angela had secretly kindled a hope that one day he might bring him home. Richard was good for Aidan. 

It was simply that Aidan would not have been able to keep it to himself. She wished she could squeeze Dean's hand. Instead she turned back to Ian. "You mentioned two things. What is the other?"

"Have you all heard of the term _ghost writer?_ " Ian asked, looking around the room. When their raised eyebrows or vacant stares greeted him, he went on to explain. "A ghost writer is someone called in to help write—or in this case write _for_ —another person. Richard had a strong desire that his fourth novel in the Coventry series be completed—and if that venture proved successful, he'd like the series continued. It was his hope that Aidan Turner be that ghostwriter."

Dean's hand holding Martin's tightened its grip and he shot Martin a look. _Why not you?_ it telegraphed.

Angela however only nodded, finding it an honor that her husband would be ecstatic about once he found out, but not otherwise confused by the idea. "I'll head over to inform him after the conclusion of the will."

"Would it be all right if I came with you?" Dean asked her. "I don't want him sitting and worrying that I'm unhappy with him. I hadn't told this to anyone, but I had intended on moving as soon as Aidan’s back on his feet. I think it's quite all right about the townhouse. I do. I'm more concerned about how Aidan's going to react."

Dean was also very concerned about the remark John Armitage had made, and the awful wave of jealousy and doubt it had raised.

She smiled at him. Aidan would be taken aback by the news, not much more, but if Dean still wanted to see him after Aidan turned out to be inheriting Dean's residence, then there couldn't be any hard feelings from Dean's side. "That's wonderful, love. He'd like that. Martin, you too?"

In the two corner seats, Richard's parents sat stiffly. Everyone could tell they thought they had gotten the bad side of the bargain, despite the unspoken agreement that most of the others present thought they didn't deserve anything, judging from how they had treated Richard during his life.

Ian nodded crisply at the room full of people. "That is all. I will contact each of you in the upcoming week regarding arrangements and paperwork and whatnot. Does anyone have questions?"

Dean spoke up. "Is there a timeline? When do I have to be out of the townhouse?"

"That," Ian said, sliding a small box across the table in Dean's direction, "will be up to the new owner. Something tells me he'll be very forgiving. This," Ian tapped the top of the box, "is a final gift for you, from Richard. To be opened when you're alone," Ian told him solemnly.

"All right," Dean reached out to shake Ian's hand. "Thank you, Ian. You've been a very good friend to Richard. He would have been very grateful for all you've done to help me this past week."

A sadness came over Ian, and he bowed his head. They all missed Richard. "If you can spare an hour for an old friend, I'd like to come over for coffee and catch up on things, when you're ready."

Ian concluded the reading of the will and closed his folder.


	11. I Just Don't Have the Energy to Hate Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean tells Aidan what he's inherited from Richard. Dean opens the box from Ian. Aidan is nearly ready to be released from the hospital... when he has another dream.

"Mom! Oh, thank goodness, you're here. Tell them I need more painkillers. I don't feel good, Mom."

A prisoner of his bed, courtesy of the wound on his chest, Aidan looked worse than he had before leaving the funeral. His skin was clammy and there were bags under his eyes. He was not in comfort.

"He's weaning him off the heaviest medication," the present nurse immediately explained in a whisper to Angela. "Try to distract him. He will be in more pain than he's used to, but he needs to go through it."

Dean gave Angela a questioning look. “So soon?” he wondered, and she gave him a nod. Dean didn’t think it was fair to start cutting back on Aidan’s pain meds so soon after losing his best friend.

He slipped into the chair next to Aidan's bed. After studying Aidan's face for a few seconds, he ventured, "You look like shit."

"Who said it was okay for you to express your opinion?" Dean’s decision to comment on Aidan's status was at once bounced back with venom. "I _feel_ like shit. Why are you here anyway?"

"I-I'm sorry, Aidan," Dean leaned in and told him. "I did some reading about the surgery you've been through. I know you're in pain. I hadn't meant to be mean to you."

When Aidan didn't respond to his apology, Dean continued. "You won't have to worry about moving out. Richard's given you his house."

That shut Aidan up from complaining any further about the presence of the last man he wanted to see, especially after last night's dream. "Mom?" he asked his mother's confirmation.

She chuckled. "He's not lying. You’ve inherited the house."

"...Why?"

"Why do you think?" Dean sat back smugly. "Because he cared for you, of course. I guess he wanted to make sure that you always had someplace to live. He even set up an account to help pay for expenses. And the truth is, Richard knew I wouldn't be able to continue to live there without him. The townhouse has been our home for fourteen years. We built our marriage there. I can't turn a single corner anywhere in that house without missing him. I can't live like that, Aidan."

Deep brown eyes found his though. What Dean saw was helplessness. 

_And what do you think it'll be like for me?_ , they read.

"It's too big for me," was what Aidan voiced. "What do I do with it? Why didn't he leave it to you so you could sell it? He was your husband."

Dean looked saddened by this revelation. "Once you sign the paperwork and the title is transferred, it's yours to do with as you wish," he told him. "Obviously, selling it is an option. But suppose someday you meet someone? Wouldn't it be a lovely home for the two of you?" Dean blinked, and a tear ran from each eye that he didn't bother wiping away. "I can leave you the furniture, of course," he tried to allay Aidan's concerns. "You'll need a place to..." and then he paused. Should he even begin to try to explain Richard's second gift to Aidan?

"I don't want to sell something Rich left me. If he thought I needed money, he would have left me money, not a house."

A sharp pain came up that rendered Aidan incapable of speaking for a long minute. His mother looked at him with concern. 

"I don't understand why Richard left my son a house, either," confessed she. "Aidan always talked about buying an apartment when he rounded up the money. Something small but central. You need the space a lot more, because of your work."

Aidan caught those words. "Art gallery!" he said. His fists were no longer white. "I wouldn't need more than a room, but it's not my house, is it? It's yours and Richard's. If you want—I mean, if you're sure you are going to live somewhere else—you could use the rest of the space that I don't need for your art. Richard would have liked that."

"Aidan, love, let it sink in first."

"Mom, he left me a _house_. That's ridiculous!" Aidan zoned in on Dean. He forced himself to ignore the distracting images his dream had put on the forefront of his mind, as well as the throbbing sensation of the wound on his chest. "What did he leave you?"

"Nearly everything else," Dean told him, hoping the conversation would help distract Aidan from the pain he was obviously feeling. "All his belongings and nearly all of his money not tied up in the account for the house. He left his collection of books to Martin and his parents received the cottage and land on Loch Lomond. John and Margaret were dreadful, as usual," Dean couldn't help but smile. "But I'm hoping that today is the last time I ever have to see their hateful faces."

He saw Aidan struggling with the blanket and leaned forward to pull it up under his chin. "He wants you to finish writing his novel," Dean told him, as if it were the simplest thing.

"He asked me that?" Discomfort was writ on Aidan's face. "He encouraged me to write on several occasions. But to ask me again in his will, when I can't tell him no, that's unfair. He knows I'm dreadful at it."

“He only _asked,_ ” Dean told him. “It’s not something you have to do.”

Aidan wondered what it all meant. Richard had granted him a house to live in—a permanent place that was paid for but that didn't allow Aidan to sit idle because of taxes and the money necessary to keep such a house in good shape—and he had asked him to continue his writing. Richard was, without a doubt, providing for him even after his death.

The thing just was that it was not wholly Richard's house to give, regardless of whether he owned it on paper, and that confused Aidan. He hissed in pain when another jab had his body shaking. "I don't know why he gave me those things," he told a worried looking Dean when the agony once again subsided, "but the house will always be yours as well, as long as I have it. Keep the bedroom and the studio. We'll figure out what to do with the rest when I'm better."

"Believe me," Dean said, "I don't intend on leaving you there to fend for yourself until you're fully recovered. I know Angela and Danny will want to return to Ireland eventually. But I've done some reading about what your recovery process will be like. I won't move until I know you're feeling better. As far as the writing goes," Dean picked idly at a loose thread on Aidan's blanket, "you're being modest. Richard's told me that you've already given him ideas. He told me that nearly 50 percent of the last Coventry novel was made up of your ideas."

The business with the blanket kept Aidan looking at Dean's fingers against any conscious decision. "But those were ideas. I'm not—that's,” he sighed. “I'm not a master with words like he was. He could describe pot chicken and still make it sound like you were dining in a three star restaurant." When he was looking up at Dean, there was mischief in his eyes. "You sound like a private nurse when you say it like that."

"Maybe that's exactly what I would be," Dean swallowed thickly. "I need _something_ to make me feel as if I have a purpose right now. Otherwise I'll only sit around and feel sorry for myself. And I think you have a wonderful way with words. You wouldn't have won all those roles if you weren't creative, would you? You'd just need to channel it differently. You could try your hand at writing while you recover. You aren't allowed to do much else, after all," Dean reminded him. "And I'll try to get back into my art. Although, truth be told, I haven't been able to set foot back in my studio."

 _What's this? The mighty Dean is trying to make me feel better?_ Aidan thought it was nice though, and he made sure that there was no way Dean could imagine a sneer or something of the like. "I'll be in here for at least another week. Get your studio back. Mom and Dad can help you move my stuff, if you want. I'll do my best to master the stairs so I can make it to the guest bedroom."

Dean snorted. "I'm not about to move everything again. Especially since it's only a matter of time before I'd have to pack it all up. Stay in the room you've been sleeping in. It'll be easier for all of us. I want easy right now, all right?" Dean grew quiet, but continued to worry the loose thread with his fingers. "You want to feel better, don't you?" he asked at length.

Aidan wrinkled his nose. "That's a funny thing to ask if you knew the kind of pain I am in."

"I know what kind of pain you're in," Dean assured him, not looking up. "You feel as if your heart's been ripped out of your chest. And what's left inside you aches because the most important thing in your life ...is gone. Am I close?"

"I was talking about the physical pain." Aidan gave him a small smile. "But you're accurate enough. Why do you ask if I want to feel better?"

"Because, it would seem that if I'm the one having to take care of you, you'd rather suffer," Dean observed. "I know we've never been friends, Aidan. I know we've barely tolerated one another most of the time." He looked around to see if Angela and Danny were near, but both had left the room to give them privacy. "You see, I was always afraid of losing him to you," Dean told him matter-of-factly.

Aidan opened his mouth and closed it. Dean had been jealous. Years of awkwardness had had him thinking Dean didn't like Aidan for what he was—which was, in short, Dean's polar opposite—and it turned out to be plain old jealousy.

Of course.

"If only you were afraid of me for the right reasons," he sighed. He hid further under the blanket, afraid of saying what he was about to. "You know I loved him differently when we first met. You must have seen it. But there was never any competition, Dean. His heart was yours. You must think a lot of things about me, but I can't sway a heart that is in love with someone else, and I don't see why I should. I gave up on him in months. You were unnecessarily afraid for years."

"You're a good looking guy, Aidan. And he was crazy about you," Dean sniffled. "If it were me dead and in the ground, I know you two would have become a couple sooner rather than later. I..." he paused awkwardly. "I should probably head home," he said. "Is there anything you need? I could bring it over tomorrow? Or we could maybe play Xbox?"

"You don't have to look after me, Dean. You don't owe me anything. Richard's no longer here."

It was tempting for Aidan to consider what would have happened if Dean had been the one to die... but no, that would not change reality. It only made the taste of it more bitter. He offered Dean a smile. "But I'd appreciate it if you still want to come over despite that."

He was reminded again of the dream. Dean could never know about that dream. Never. But it was peculiar how much he was making an effort today, when common sense told Aidan that they no longer had a reason to be calling each other friends.

\- - - - - 

The air had turned bitter cold by the time Dean got back to the townhouse. Angela and Danny were still at the hospital, and the only light in the place came from the nightlight under the range hood in the kitchen.

Dean put on a kettle of water to boil, then left the front porch light on for the Turners before lighting a fire in the living room fireplace. A fire always made him feel better. As he waited for the water to boil, he remembered the package Ian had given him at his office earlier that day.

Dean slipped the small box out of his valise and carefully opened it. Inside was another box, this one of blue leather – the size that would hold a ring. This was confirmed when Dean opened it and caught a flash of blue that rivaled Richard's eyes. Instantly, he was filled with a longing he could never again assuage. The ring was heavy and appeared to be made of platinum. The stone was a beautiful shade of powdery ice blue. 

Dean shook the box and two other items fell out. The first, was a thick, ridged business card with the words _Warning: Item Contains Cremains_ on both sides.

Oh. 

_Oh._

This ring was made from some of Richard's ashes. It had to have been completed just the night before.

The second item was an envelope. _Dean_ was written on the outside, in Richard's handwriting.

"No," Dean whispered. "Please... Rich, I can't take any more."

Hands trembling, he opened the envelope with care.

 _My love,_ it began in Richard's rolling script. _I don't know how old you'll be when this letter finally makes its way to your hands. The only thing I do know with certainty is that I will be gone. I'm having a ring fashioned that looks a great deal like the one you saw in the store window on our trip to Greece. I wanted you to have it, one way or another._

_You are the best thing that ever happened to me. You are my foil, my lover, my staunchest supporter and my very best friend. No one could ever take your place. I'm so proud of all you have done, and all I know you still have inside you. I'm not going to do anything ridiculous like tell you to 'move on and find someone else'. I know that when the time is right, if the time is ever right, you will. He will be the luckiest man in the world. Well, perhaps the second luckiest, since I got to you first._

_Wear this ring and a part of me will always be with you._

_Love, Richard_

A tear fell onto the paper, blurring edges of the words in the lower right corner. Dean didn't notice. The ring lay heavy in his palm. He held it up to the light and inspected it from all angles. It was truly a work of art—one of a kind because of its contents. Inside the band, Dean could see tiny letters, which he could barely make out because there were so many.

_You are always new, the last of your kisses was ever the sweetest._

It was Keats, of course. Dean slid the ring onto his left hand. It fit perfectly. He knew he'd never be taking it off again. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

The whistle of the tea kettle startled him. What did not surprise him was what he discovered when he entered the kitchen. He had sat out two mugs, side by side. A sob bubbling up in his throat, he reached for Richard's favorite mug with its picture of Shakespeare on it, to put away. Then he thought the better of it, and decided it would now be _his_ favorite mug.

\- - - - -

Aidan's parents left him early that day. The lack of painkillers had been haunting him every few minutes, and eventually Angela had asked the doctor if they could at least give him a sleeping pill for his pain relief. At seven in the evening, he was out cold, and there was no more reason for them to stay.

It continued like that for a few days, until on the fourth Aidan was slowly beginning to feel less pain. He joked that maybe finally he had become numb to it. But that wasn't it. Another two, and the doctors were beginning to express the idea that perhaps he could go home in a few days. He would still be bedridden for another couple of weeks, of course. His charts showed good recovery and his heart wasn't being rejected. He hadn't had an incident in three days.

There were few reasons why he would need to stay, as long as he took his medication and someone came by to check up on his status every two days.

At the last night in the hospital, Aidan was ready to leave and breathe in fresh air again. He was ready to have his mom and dad look after him in his own home—that idea still needed time to get used to—and he was eager to return to the real world. He was even ready to see Dean and his friends who had hardly visited him.

Until he had another dream.

It was dark, this time. And outside, for a wind howled through the streets. Cobblestone, he noted. It all looked fairly Dickensian, and Aidan didn't think he cared enough about Dickens to warrant dreams about it.

At the far end of the street down the hill lay a body of water. He couldn't tell if it was the sea, a lake or merely a pond. It had to be autumn or winter, because he was wearing a long lined coat and he pushed his hands in his pockets, shivering from the cold. Why was he here? There was not a man in the streets, aside from himself. He liked being there though. The solitude was comforting—perfect for an evening stroll.

Scotland. He was returning home, opening the door and allowing the warmth of the fire in the hearth to chase out the cold. All the curtains had been closed, he noticed belatedly, and candles carried his eyes up the stairs into the bedroom. A smile came upon his lips.

The perfect way to warm up. Dean knew him well.

Dean sat waiting for him on the bed in a red bathrobe and socks, sketching and wearing a pair of reading glasses. A smile spread across his face as he noticed Aidan's presence. "Dr. Holmes," he greeted him. "What ho, old chap? How was your stroll along the moors?"

"Refreshing. And cold." Aidan walked closer, toeing off his socks with unintentional display and crawling up on the bed. He took the sketchbook from Dean’s hands and set it aside. "I did not find myself upon a hellhound, thank the heavens. You look like you've made yourself comfortable."

Dean's eyes moved to the crackling fire, then back to Aidan's face. He slipped off his glasses and lay them on the bedside table. "You know I'm never really comfortable until you get here," he told him. "Were you able to send the fax?"

Aidan nodded. He stole a lasting kiss without presuming a logical follow-up. "Graham will see to it. I asked him to check up on Aidan. Everything will be fine."

"Aidan's a grown man, you know." A scowl marred Dean's face, but only momentarily. "He _can_ take care of himself. Of course, he'll never learn if you keep mothering him."

"I could ask him not to check up on him," Aidan mused—what was up with talking about himself in the third person?—"but then you and I are both aware of his infamous talent to make a mess of the tidiest places, and are you sure you wouldn't want Graham to tell him to clean up our house a little before we return?" He moved closer to Dean, waiting for the invitation that let them proceed to the next level. "Do you remember the time we let him look after the house at New Year's?"

" _We?_ " Dean chuckled, raising his eyebrows. "That, my love, was your idea." He spread his legs slightly in invitation, the soft red fabric of the robe parting to reveal a taut, furred thigh. He reached out to Aidan, encouraging him to crawl forward between them.

And Aidan practically sighed at what he beheld, sitting back to take off his sweater before undoing the shirt underneath. He moved to trail kisses up those thighs, nudged under the robe with his nose until his mouth wrapped around what he had been looking for. "He had fun, I’ll give him that." He shrugged off the subject of Aidan fondly, before licking a long stripe up Dean's cock.

Dean let out a pleasured gasp, undoing the belt of his robe and letting it fall open. Dean's skin was warm and flush from two glasses of wine and a hot shower. "And here I thought there was nothing to do here by the loch," he chuckled, laying his head back against the pillows behind him. 

"We've always had things to do," Aidan replied deeply. He didn't bother removing other articles of his own clothing. Instead he thumbed Dean's robe further open, looked up and dedicated fifteen minutes to offer his partner the best blowjob he could give him, all the while refusing to decently bring him off. They had been together for years— _wait a minute_ —and the sight of the man who had stolen his heart, lost in utter bliss, had not come close to losing its charm. "What do you want from me?" whispered he. "Anything you want, love."

Dean reached down a hand and lazily caressed Aidan's face, eyes full of an adoration so deep and a trust so strong it was almost crippling. "I want everything," Dean told him. "You. On me. In me. _Under_ me. I want to taste you, too," he reminded him. "Let's..." his eyes lit up with a devilish glint as he slipped the belt of his robe out from beneath him and handed it to Aidan.

He was rewarded with a raised eyebrow and a tongue that casually licked his lips in promise. Aidan didn't need to be told twice. There were bars on the bed, and the rope was fleece and thus not uncomfortable. It did not take long before he had the other man bound by his wrists, himself fully undressed, and his aching desire pressing against Dean's lips for entrance. Aidan's hands tangled in cropped curls while his hand drew circles against Dean's jaw. He cooed softly, "Open up. Blow me."

Though a prisoner of sorts, Dean hardly appeared to be under duress. He eagerly accepted Aidan's cock into his mouth. He teased with his tongue, sucked and groaned sinfully as if he'd never tasted anything more delicious in his life. 

"So good," Dean gasped when Aidan pulled the turgid organ out to give him a respite. "Big... perfect. God, I love you, Rich."

And Aidan was suddenly yanked out of his body. He didn't understand what was going on at first. The world shifted. Then he was no longer moving in and out of Dean's sinful mouth. A spectator, that was what Aidan had been forced to become. He watched with growing horror as Richard—his dear friend Richard, whom he had once hoped to be entwined with as Dean was now—ravaged the blond's mouth, before sliding back down and spreading his legs.

He watched, because he could not look away when Richard coated a finger liberally and eased it in. The nudge of the second had his mouth dry, and when Richard positioned himself, Aidan found himself not gazing upon the perfection of his best friend, but on the details of the other man.

Just like that, he was Richard again, thrusting hard but not relentlessly so. He worshiped the body over which he had been given control. Aidan let his hands roam and his palms spread on heated skin.

In that moment, he forgot it was not him.

\- - - - - 

The week after Richard's funeral passed with nightmarish slowness. Dean would wake at 7 a.m. simply because the Alprazolam had worn off and his dreams brought him nothing worth staying asleep for. He kept hoping to dream of Richard, but it hadn't happened yet. What, then, was the point of sleeping?

He'd make himself coffee or tea—drunk, of course, in his new favorite mug, which seemed to be perpetually in his hand. If it weren't for Angela heating up the many casseroles that had been brought over, he probably wouldn't have eaten at all.

After what seemed like hours of being awake, he would look at the clock, finding it to be only 9:45 in the morning. Without looking forward to Richard coming home from school, each hour, each minute, was interminable.

Thrice he had ventured into his studio to try to work. The first time he had picked up a pencil, his heartbeat had ratcheted up and his mind replayed Aidan's collapse and the subsequent trip to the hospital. 

_Richard died because of events that started in this room,_ he thought as the hand holding the pencil shook.

He couldn't draw, couldn't think about art. God knew he wanted to. How he missed the escape of falling into a piece of canvas for hours upon end! Instead he wandered from room to room, very much a ghost himself, waiting for something that was never going to happen.

Eventually, he went to a packaging store and bought some sturdy boxes and bubble wrap. Dean packed up Richard's collection of books for Martin. He spent time with each one as it was prepared for the journey, certain that if he leafed through each page, maybe a trapped bit of Richard's spirit might come floating out and hold him.

It was what he missed most desperately—being held by Richard. Nothing, no one, could possibly satisfy that ache. Visits with Adam took the edge off. Helping Martin cart away the books did not. He was more than eager to let Martin have all the shelving and library furniture as well. All smelled too strongly of Richard, and he was better off not keeping it around to torture himself.

Some nights, however, he couldn't fall asleep until he'd taken one of Richard's sweaters and put it over a pillow, holding it close all night long. 

"Maybe you need grief counseling," Adam told him one day at lunch, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "There's no shame in it."

"I know," Dean replied. "I'm just sad. I don't need to get together with other sad people in order to make myself feel better."

"Maybe you do. You know I'd be the last person to suggest it, Dean." Adam was known for mocking group confessions and psychological bullshit, because, he tended to say, 'they all just needed to cheer the fuck up'. But Dean seemed incapable of cheering up on his own, and all of his close friends had tried but failed. Grief took time and had no deadline, but that did not mean they did not worry. "You're a ghost of yourself. You need to get out there again, among people, instead of wasting away in memories within these four walls. Maybe you might start looking for that apartment? I know a few that'll strike your fancy."

Adam gave him a friendly pat on the hand. He didn't like seeing his friend wane in the absence of Richard. He sighed out. "I don't like saying this, but maybe it's good Aidan is coming back tomorrow. You can't deny he's good at setting you off."

Dean snorted. "I promised him I'd stick around until he's ready to go back to work. I think once his parents leave, he's going to be just as miserable as I am."

"Does that make you feel better?"

Dean shook his head. "If you'd asked me this a month ago, I would have said yes. But now..." he shrugged, "I just don't have the energy to hate him, you know?"

But Dean certainly lay awake enough at night thinking about it. Would Richard still be alive if Aidan hadn't gone to the hospital that day? Or would fate simply have found another way to end his life? 

He raised his head and smiled at Adam. "I have to be nice to him right now. Shit, he could throw me out on the street, right?"

"If that's the only reason, I don't see why you'd bother." Adam shifted his weight, glancing quickly at his bag when a familiar buzz told him he had received a message. Whatever it was, it wasn't important. "Martin and me, we've already told you to come live with one of us. Honestly, Dean? We have no idea why Richard would do that. You keep telling us it's because of memories, but it's also _indecent_ to just inconvenience you for someone who should be less important to him."

"Richard was always very good to Aidan," Dean told him. "But he was better to me. I was first. I know that. It was hard to remember, especially having to watch them together. But I came first. Always." He pushed his sandwich away, half eaten. "You know what I've been thinking about? Cooking. I've been thinking about taking some classes. Professional ones. Richard always loved my cooking. Maybe others would too."

Adam grabbed the check and picked it up, heading towards the cash register at the front of the restaurant. "That is a fine idea. And I know just the place for it. Might even get you a discount if you let me tag along once or twice."

Despite his slender frame, Adam was known as a gourmet. He especially loved high cuisine, but when his wallet wouldn't allow it, he also knew the best budget places to eat in town. He frequently dragged people along. "Can I try?" he asked, after paying. "I'm a good judge."

Dean nodded. "Yeah. Yeah. Let's do it, Adam. I need something, _anything_ to take my mind somewhere else. You wouldn't mind hanging out with me?"

Arms enveloped him in a hug. Adam wouldn't tell Dean that it was less to do with sympathy and more with how adorable he had just sounded. "Do you even need to ask me that? We're friends! It'll be fun! Just make sure you make plenty of cakes and need someone to sample them for you. And I'll make things you'd like. It'll be mutually beneficial."

"I don't want to _bake_ , you knob," Dean chuckled against Adam's shoulder. "I want to _cook._ Chopping vegetables, sautéing them. I want to bone a duck!"

"Mh, I'd bone a lot of things, but not a duck," Adam replied flatly, grinning nonetheless. 

"I know you would," Dean agreed, patting his shoulder. Then the thought came to him... _Am I supposed to start dating again? Will anyone want me now?_ Suddenly, he couldn't breathe. "I think I should head home," he managed at last. "Aidan's coming back to the house tomorrow and I need to make sure his room's ready."

Adam pulled him back, seeing the change in Dean’s emotions loud and clear. "Forget about him for a minute. He's got his parents too. Look, sorry, that comment about boning wasn't very professional of me. I'd really like to come watch you cook, I mean it. Decent things, not just frivolous cakes. But I'm there first of all because of you."

Dean pictured it—he and his best friend cooking side by side in the cozy kitchen at the townhouse. Such warm colors and bronze fixtures all around. He loved the generous island in the center that made food prep so much easier. That island, he remembered, was also a spot where he'd been fucked silly by Richard on several occasions—and not all of them drunken.

He missed Richard so much he ached. Maybe he was coming down with something.

"A new place," he said quietly. "I don't want to do any really challenging cooking until I have a new flat. I'll start looking as soon as Aidan's up and steady on his feet."

Adam had no way of knowing what was on Dean's mind. He only saw him go from hopeful to downcast in a constant fluctuation between the two. If there was a way to restore him to balance, he would take the opportunity. They worried about him—him, Martin, Graham and some of the others—but there wasn't much they could do. They all missed Richard. It made Adam feel helpless.

He held onto Dean's hand, squeezed it and offered a smile that he hoped would let Dean know he was not alone in this. It might feel that way, but he was not.

"I'll start checking some things out," he promised. "I don't presume to know what you want, other than a townhouse with a grand kitchen and a studio and Richard in it, but if I see a bite-size palace of perfection, well..."

"I'm serious about the cooking classes, too," Dean told him, leaning over to kiss his friend on the cheek soundly. And he was. He needed something. Soon. Or he might go mad.


	12. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aidan comes home from the hospital, but thanks to the strange dreams he's been having, he doesn't know how to act around Dean.

After they parted ways, Dean swung by an electronics store and bought a couple of new games for Aidan's Xbox. He wasn't one hundred percent sure Aidan would like them, but they were new and they'd help him kill time. He also bought a bed-wedge, a pillow that would allow Aidan to sleep in a more upright position and put less stress on his healing ribs.

Dean knew Aidan had been through hell surgically, his breastbone cut open. There were wires that held the ribs together in there now. He'd have them there the rest of his life, protecting the new heart. He'd also always have a scar on his chest. Did it feel different, Dean wondered, having a stranger's heart beating inside you?

He made up Aidan's bed with new, higher thread count sheets so Aidan would be as comfortable as possible. He had moved a reclining leather chair and the biggest TV in the house into Aidan's room, as well as a dormitory-sized refrigerator. He hoped Aidan felt better once he got home.

_Home._

\- - - - -

Aidan wanted to run far away.

He couldn't look Dean in the eye from the moment he came in. His father was pushing a wheelchair that made sure Aidan wouldn't stress his body overly when he needed to move. Of course, Aidan couldn't move it himself. His arms would have to push the wheels and his chest would stretch when he did. So that made him a passenger, helpless to be taken anywhere by someone else, any time he needed to go somewhere.

Most embarrassingly, that included the bathroom.

He avoided Dean as soon as he knew they were in the same room, his eyes cast down. "I want to sleep," he whispered to his father.

The house was his now. That idea had not stopped being ridiculous—almost as sad as it made him that Richard was no longer in it—but Aidan was concerned about different things today. He had dreamed about his best friend's husband. He had dreamed he had slept with him, had dreamed he had kissed him during the height of his orgasm. No words described how guilty that made him feel towards Richard.

"It's still pretty early," Dean told Aidan, looking at the clock, which read 5:45 p.m. "I made dinner," he told the Turners. "I remember that first night you were here, and we were talking about Dublin Coddle. So, I tried it. It smells really, really good," he offered lamely, wondering why Aidan wouldn't even look at him. Perhaps the drive over had taken a lot out of him. "I can bring some to your room," he suggested, eyes seeking out Danny for a clue as to what was going on.

"I'm not hungry," Aidan shook his head. He couldn't push forward while his father had stopped out of courtesy while Dean addressed them, so he continued to keep his eyes on his hands and prayed that his dad would take the hint.

"Oh love, of course you are," his mother unhelpfully butted in. "At least eat a little. You will need your strength."

"Mom, I said I want to sleep!" Aidan's response was that of a six-year-old.

Dean's face fell. "It's all right," he said. "Of course you're tired. You haven't been out in the air for weeks. Get some sleep. I'll save some for you." His eyes searched Aidan's face desperately, trying to figure out what was wrong.

But then he realized what it was. Richard wasn't here. Of course.

"I made up your room," Dean told him, backing away towards the kitchen. "I hope you like it. Let me know if you need anything, all right?"

Aidan inclined his head minimally.

His heart both felt lighter and heavier when his father finally started rolling him again, onto his room and away from Dean. Aidan didn't know where he was going. He had told Dean to take back his old studio. He needed it; anyone could see he could do with a distraction. Dean looked worse a mess than he, and he had no doubt that it had to do with this house. But Aidan was still being pushed towards the studio, and his heart clenched when he saw the chaos he had left, now tamed into serenity around a bed of cream-colored sheets and a fluffy comforter, an Xbox at the ready and several books as well as writing equipment and a remote on his nightstand.

The touch in the room was obviously Dean's. Apparently he did not know how skilled Aidan was at procrastination and how bad the Xbox and books really were, but he had done it all with care.

God, and all Aidan had thought about was not looking him in the eye, for fear that Dean would see what Aidan had done. How he had muddied Richard's memory.

"Tell him I'm sorry?" Aidan asked his father in the silence. "I am. I'm just... I'm sorry. I inherited something I had no right to get."

"Dean's not upset about this house being given to you," Danny told Aidan. "Living here without Richard is painful for him. You can see it in his eyes. He needs to get out if he ever hopes to move on. What did concern him, I think—and only because a seed of doubt was planted in his head by Richard's father—is _why_ Richard left this place to you. To John, it seemed... I don't know... inappropriate, I suppose."

"Because he thinks I was sleeping with him." Unfiltered, Aidan forgot for a moment that it was his dad he was saying this to. He pursed his lips, dedicated not to give another word when he realized it. "We were just friends, Dad. Can you help me into bed? I want to be alone for a bit."

"Dean doesn't believe John, Aidan. Not really," Danny assured him, pulling down the covers. "It was just a shock. It surprised me, I can tell you. You had a wonderful friend in Richard. And, judging by the state of this room, I'd say you have one in Dean as well."

A silence followed his words like they had been rhetorical.

Aidan waited for his father to leave the room before the bitter taste of reality rose up in his throat. They would never be friends the way Richard and Aidan had been. It was preposterous to suggest it.

Dean would never be as patient with him as Richard had been. Aidan might have pretended he wasn't difficult to everyone else; Richard knew him as he was and did not care. Dean could be as nice as he was now, and Aidan would only feel more ashamed of himself. They weren't cut from good friend material. The only thing they had in common was that the rug had been swept out from under them, with neither of them knowing how to get up again.

He didn't fall asleep. For two hours Aidan just looked at the ceiling. But eventually his stomach did protest.

Dean dried the supper dishes as Angela washed, at her insistence. Both of them had a glass of red wine at the ready. When the silence grew uncomfortable for Dean, he finally broke it.

"Does he think I hate him?"

She blinked at him. "Aidan? No, love. Why would you think that?"

"It's just, the way he was acting tonight," Dean lay down his tea towel and put a stack of plates into the cupboard. "It's like he would have rather been anywhere else but here. I thought he'd be thrilled to finally be out of the hospital. Is it me? Should I start packing?"

"If he forces you to start packing, I'll have a good word with him, all right." Angela's smile was kind though. "I'm sure it's Richard. He hasn't been outside for a long time, and now he'll be here in his friend's house for a while. He has been looking forward to leaving the hospital almost since the day he got there. But when Richard left us, well, he never talked about it again."

"That I understand," Dean said quietly, unable to look at her. "Every time I leave this house and come back, I keep hoping— _wishing_ —that Richard will be here waiting for me, and this will all have been a bad dream." He cleared his throat in an attempt to keep his tears at bay. He still felt the need to explain things. "Aidan and I... we've never been close."

Angela took a seat, and gestured him to do the same. No good would come of work when Dean's hands shook like that. "I didn't know. I've not heard him talk about you a lot, but I've never heard him say anything bad. You know how he wears his heart on his sleeve. Is that why you're afraid he'll make you leave? Aidan is a decent man, Dean. I cannot help you with your memories of Richard, but I know you shouldn't be afraid of having to leave."

This would have been a great opportunity for Dean to pour his heart out. Angela seemed ready to listen. But he couldn't do it. His own mother, who hadn't come to Richard's funeral, nor returned his phone calls after Richard died, had been a distant disappointment. Margaret Armitage, though he'd had such high hopes for her, was instead crueler to him than his own mother had been. He liked Angela and thought she liked him too. He didn't need to ruin that any further.

"I feel... adrift," was finally what came out of his mouth after a sip of his wine. "There are things I want to do, but when I set myself to the task, I begin to think, _what's the point?_ Why cook when I'm the only person here to eat? Why make the bed when I have no one to share it with?"

She listened to his words without forming her opinion. They were the thoughts of a man who had lost a large part of his convictions. She recognized it in her son, who always smiled and acted embarrassed whenever she commented on the state of his old apartment, or the fact that he only ate junk food—especially after a breakup he refused to talk about—but who continued to do it regardless. She hoped he'd stay off his cigarettes for once, after all this was over.

"Someone once told me that nobody is responsible for their own happiness but themselves. Of course, he was a fool who lost a lot of friends because he refused to care about other people's feelings. But he had a point. Only when you are who you were supposed to be, will life come your way again. When you cooked for Richard, weren't you really also proud of yourself? When you make your bed, doesn't it feel better when you return to it in the evening? But," she reached for Dean's hand, "I'm not telling you what to do. You have to figure that out for yourself."

"I was just a cocky kid when I met Rich," Dean told her. "Being around him—being _with_ him—made me want to be a better person. He brought out the best in everyone he cared for. Well," he chuckled wryly, "except maybe his parents. Maybe I'm afraid of what I might turn into without him here to take care of me. Maybe Aidan is too."

"I always had the feeling Aidan bragged about his life to Richard rather than looking up to him for happiness," Angela mused. "But you're right, Richard kept him straight. Well, as straight as could be." She laughed. "I am blessed to still have him with us. We almost lost him too. Thanks, Dean, for not being terrible to him. I'm not sure I would have been as strong."

"Are you kidding me?" Dean pulled the cork out of the bottle of wine nearby and freshened both their glasses. "You and Danny, you're just amazing. You've met Richard's folks, and mine have gone out of their way not to be part of my life for as long as I can remember. Aidan is so lucky to have you guys. It doesn't matter if you have moments of weakness. We all do. But you're _here_ for him. I'm not even your son and you've been here for me as well."

The red liquid whirled when both took their glasses at the same time. Angela clicked it against Dean's softly. "It's impossible not to love him for us. Cheers."

She did not miss the movement at the door from the corner of her eyes. "Ah. Excuse me, looks like someone is hungry after all. You," she turned to Aidan, "should not be up at all. Back to bed, immediately."

"He's not allowed to walk at all?" Dean asked, to hide his embarrassment at being caught in a friendly moment with Aidan's mother. "Surely he can come sit?"

"He's got a big wound on his chest," Angela countered, "so as little as possible."

Aidan groaned. He was trying to keep his chest as still as he could, which made him look highly uncomfortable. He continued to shy away from meeting Dean's eyes. "Mom, come on. I've been in my bed all day, and I'm hungry. You want me to starve?"

"Oh, don't be dramatic. Get into bed, I'll bring you what you need."

Dean tried to meet Aidan's eyes, but Aidan refused to look his way. "I could bring it to you," he suggested. "Maybe we could play some Xbox after."

"...I'm not in the mood for Xbox. Sorry." Aidan looked at his hands, chanced a look up and—when the understanding was reached that he would be brought food—he shuffled out of the door.

He didn't want to avoid Dean. Dean had enough things to worry about as it was. But Aidan could not shake off the dream and the subsequent guilt whenever he thought about it. He didn't want to be having those dreams. What was up with the strange timing anyway? He was fairly sure he wasn't attracted to Dean.

Dean pushed away from the table with a sigh. Aidan was not going to make this easy. Not at all. "What can I do?" he asked aloud, forgetting for the moment that Angela was still in the room.

Aidan stopped and turned. Dean's tone was almost accusatory. "You wanted to bring me food, right?"

Dean lowered his head meekly, now unable to meet either of their gazes. "Yeah," he whispered. "It'll just be a few minutes."

That was it then. He was to be Aidan's nurse, and nothing more, until the day Aidan asked him to leave. If he asked. He'd probably order him.

_Help me, Rich,_ he begged, opening the oven where the casserole sat waiting.

But Aidan for his part understood that his wording might have come out wrong. How could he not, when his mother gave him such a withering glare? He walked back to the bed with a straight back, let himself sink in and sighed when there was no longer stress on his chest.

When Dean brought him food—Dublin Coddle was his favorite and the slices of casserole made his stomach growl—Aidan still didn't look at him. "I dreamed about him again last night," he confessed, intent on explaining himself without giving the full story. "It was stupid. He was in Scotland with you and just came back from a walk. He said he had to fax Graham to check on me. I'm sorry. I keep dreaming about him. When I do, it's like he never died."

Four years ago. That fall had been a chilly one at the loch—especially at night. Dean remembered being angry at Richard for feeling the need to run out and check on Aidan only two days into their trip. 

"He was always thinking about you." The words were out of Dean's mouth before he could stop them. "He really cared about you, Aidan. How did you know about the fax? Did he tell you?"

"It was a dream, Dean. If there was a fax, it must have been a coincidence."

"Nobody faxes anymore," Dean wrinkled his forehead as he arranged Aidan's plate, silverware and a tall glass of water on the table tray next to his bed, "but we had no cell reception that night. They've put up a tower since. He didn't want you to know he was checking up on you, but I guess he eventually broke down and told you. Rich was terrible at keeping secrets."

Aidan glared at Dean. "He didn't tell me about the fax, and what you're doing isn't funny." The implications were becoming uncomfortable.

Dean looked up at him sharply. "I'm not trying to be funny."

Aidan glared. "Well, I dreamed about it, and he never told me about sending a fax, and you're bloody making me afraid of having another dream now."

Realization dawned for Dean at last. Aidan was dreaming of Richard. Richard, who had yet to come to Dean's dreams since his death. Not only that, but he knew things. Dean was suddenly so filled with anger and sadness he could barely contain it. Even with Richard gone, Aidan was still coming between them.

"You're very lucky, then," he told Aidan, voice so tight he didn't even sound like himself. "I hope you enjoy the food. I'm going upstairs," he said, turning away and leaving the room, shutting the door soundly behind him.

Aidan couldn't speak in indignation. How—how dare he scare him by making him think his dreams weren't just dreams, and then to call him lucky and just walk off like that? Like he hadn't made Aidan terrified of falling asleep. He was a recovering heart patient, for God's sake. "Well, fuck you!" he called after him when the door was already shut. "I hope this happens to you next. Don't count on my sympathy!"

Aidan's words stung. Dean _wanted_ to dream about Richard. Every night as he was falling asleep, he willed it to happen. But it didn't. This was not to say he didn't dream about that horrible day, and getting the news of Richard's death over and over. But to have Richard actually show up in a dream? To speak to him— _hold_ him? That would be amazing.

Why was it so upsetting to Aidan? A part of him felt that he should go back to Aidan's room and apologize. But a bigger part of him felt like he had absolutely nothing to apologize for. And that was the part that carried him upstairs and into his over-large shower, where he hoped the strong, pulsing current would pound away his bitter thoughts.

Of course, Aidan heard the stream of water from his studio bedroom and—not having had a decent, long shower in a month—cursed him twice more.

He didn't feel like eating. It was one of his favorite dishes which Dean had gone to great lengths to prepare, but his appetite had left him feeling hollow and saturated at the same time. He didn't want to sleep either. All that was left was the bloody Xbox and some new games that were probably all stupid anyway, and _for fuck's sake, why wasn't he somewhere Dean was not_?

He needed a smoke.

\- - - - - 

The next few days passed with uncomfortable slowness. Aidan and Dean, when they were in the same room, barely looked at or spoke to one another.

Danny, meanwhile, had to return to Dublin. His work wouldn't allow him much more time off. "Ang, is it wise for us to leave these two here alone together?" he asked, folding a sweater. " They'll end up killing each other."

She wasn't so sure. "They're grown men," Angela tried to convince herself as well as her husband. They ought to be able to manage by now. Aidan was slowly starting to walk more, although his wound still hurt. He did not need assistance around the clock anymore. But would Dean help him out if he really needed him to?

Likewise, Aidan had been practically a child when Dean was around. He refused to acknowledge him, and when he did, he did not talk to him. He was being more impossible than she had seen him in years. "I think I'll come back during the first few weekends. And if it really becomes a toxic place to stay, he can eventually come over to Dublin for a while."

Dean, who had paused in the hallway outside the room when he'd heard his name mentioned, listened to the conversation with dread. He didn't want Angela and Danny leaving thinking that he wouldn't look out for Aidan's safety. And yet, he was finding it harder and harder to be around his convalescing housemate. 

He and Aidan needed to come to some sort of peaceful understanding before the Turners left. And if Aidan was going to be stubborn, then Dean would have to try harder. He started walking again, passing the Turners' room as if simply heading down the hall.

Dean knew Aidan heard the knock on his door because he turned down the volume on the Xbox. "Can I come in?" Dean called.

Aidan was about to snort something about Dean bothering to ask, but he swallowed it. He had seen his mother's concerned looks, and this was her last day here after all. "What is it?" he called back.

"I just," _wanted to talk—thought we should make peace_ , "wanted to check if you had any dirty laundry," Dean offered lamely.

"Oh. No, I think Mom did all of it."

"Then, let me come in and take away your breakfast dishes," Dean insisted.

Aidan huffed to himself. "The door isn't locked." He paused the game, sat up and followed Dean with his eyes as he came in. When the door closed, he frowned. "Why are you going out on a limb to come in? I can take away my breakfast dishes myself. I've done it before."

Dean, ignoring the dishes, sat down in the leather chair next to Aidan's bed. "Your parents are packing up. They're concerned leaving you here with me is a bad idea. Do _you_ think it's a bad idea?"

"Are you going to go homicidal on me if I say it is?" asked Aidan. His dark complexion stood in contrast with the white sheets, making him almost appear delicate with his legs pulled up. Except Dean knew he wasn't. "Well. I'm sure we can manage, can't we? I'm working hard to get better fast. It'll only be for a short while."

"I'm not going to go homicidal," Dean chuckled, but still looked forlorn. "I don't hate you, Aidan. You know that, don't you? I mean, I don't always understand you, and I don't always know what to say to you... but I don't hate you."

"I know." Something clicked up in Aidan's thoughts though, and he wondered. "Do you think we'll still see each other after all of this is over? Be honest, Richard has always been the glue. None of your friends like me very much."

"They don't know you," Dean told him, "but, to be fair, I haven't always painted you in the best light. It would be a lot easier if you didn't shut me out so much."

"I don't—fine. Fine, I shut you out. But it's not fair how you're making me feel guilty for just having been Richard's friend. I miss him just as much as you do, Dean." Aidan was done avoiding the name in this house. Richard was gone. He missed him every day, but to avoid the truth was more painful, because it made him wish he'd see him again soon. Maybe go out for good food some time, or share all his auditions with him. And that always ended with the realization that it would never happen.

"If you feel guilty," Dean bristled, "it's not my fault."

The tension rose in the room, but Aidan wouldn't back down. "I say I dream about him and you storm off. I actually dreamed about him again since you said that. Twice. I don't say it to show off, you know. I just wish you would take comfort in it when I tell you you're always there with him in the dreams, but instead you respond like I cursed you ten times over."

"I am cursed ten times over!" Dean got up and paced across the room. "He comes to your dreams, Aidan. Why shouldn't I be jealous of that? I know you can't control it. I _know_ that. But why can't I dream about him? I... I just want to see him again," Dean sat back down meekly, "even if it's not real."


	13. Soul Survivors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aidan tries to explain his dreams to Dean. The housemates try to mend fences and move on. They are mostly successful.

After Dean's outburst, Aidan deflated. He reached for Dean's hand, but didn't do more than hold it. "I would trade it with you if I could. You know that's why I'd tell you about the dreams, right? So that maybe, in some way, you'd be able to imagine yourself there. If it's any comfort, you're always with him. I'm always just... watching, I guess. I'm not in them, myself. I wrote down the dreams, or what I can remember about them." All but the details which he refused to admit to paper. "If you want to read them..."

Dean shook his head. "They're your dreams, Aidan. I have no right to them. And it's stupid of me to be jealous. I'm sorry. I really am. But, I need to know... why have you been avoiding me since you came home from the hospital? It's not because you resent me living here, is it?"

"I barely see you," Aidan whispered, "and you've got more rights to live here than I do. If I told you it was the dreams, would you believe me?"

"You were afraid I'd be angry? Is that it?"

"No, not that. That was unexpected." Trying to lighten up the mood, Aidan smiled. He failed. "I told you. You were always with him. He was happy, and you were happy. Me, I wasn't even there. You'd think I would have dreams with myself actually in them. You two were happy, Dean, and I could feel exactly how much. You were in love." Tears crept up despite Aidan's attempts at smothering them. Dean probably thought he was an idiot for caring so much. "And to think you were feeling jealous of my dreams. You had that with him. Me, I don't even know what it's like."

"We were _so_ happy," Dean agreed, swiping away a tear with one hand. "Maybe we were so happy that it all got packed into fifteen years—because it was just too much to last a lifetime. Aidan," Dean looked up, "you could have any man you wanted. Why don't you see that?"

Aidan reclined from Dean's touch. Somewhere in the house, his parents were packing, and here he was being a wet blanket with a healing heart. "To have any man I wanted doesn't make me loved or in love in return. You were so lucky with Richard. Not everyone gets someone who loves you back the way Richard loved you."

"I refuse to believe that, Aidan. You're very good looking, you have a great smile, and you're fun to be with. Maybe," Dean hypothesized, "you just don't think you deserve it, so others buy into that. But what do I know? I'm no therapist. Would you like to go out tonight, see a movie or something? You've been cooped up in this house for far too long."

"Maybe I just have bad taste," replied Aidan glumly. "Mom said so several times. Not, she said, bad taste in looks. I think she still dotes on Luke." He handed Dean the second controller. "Play me a match? I'd love to see a movie, but I don't fancy you pushing me around in a chair. Maybe we could just watch one here on this ridiculously big television."

"That's not you getting out, though," Dean reminded him, accepting the controller. "Go gentle on me. I'm out of practice. Luke was cute," he admitted. "Why didn't things work out with you two?"

"Oh, Luke was very cute. Just not so much when we actually got serious. Or I got serious, and he decided he didn't like to be serious. Here, we'll do co-op. You're going to suck at it at first, but at least if you die it won't be because of me. Deal?" Aidan was done with his relationships of the past, truth be told, and he had sort of gotten his concerns out on the table—or at least the PG-rated version of it. "Did you have shitty flings before Richard?" he wondered aloud.

"I had... trust issues, I guess you could say," Dean confided. "My parents avoided me. My brother bullied me. The first guy I liked, in high school, well… he hit me. Only once I might add, but that was enough. So, I only really dated one other time before Richard. He was a really nice guy. We're still good friends. You've met him. Adam?"

Aidan laughed while starting up a quick tutorial for Dean. "Adam! Oh, I think he doesn't like me a lot. I didn't know you were together. Why did it end? Did Richard know?"

"We met at university as freshmen. He was the only person I really felt a connection to back then," Dean told him, smiling fondly at the memory. "We tried, you know, some _stuff,_ " Dean blushed furiously, "but it soon became obvious that we were after the same thing when it came to men. It didn't quite work out. We're still best friends. You can't have too many friends, you know?

"I did tell Richard about Adam, of course, but it wasn't much to tell. They got along all right. There wasn't anything weird there. I was a... well, I hadn't had real sex with anyone until Richard. He was the only one." Dean was quiet for a moment, staring down at his locked fingers. "Adam could get to like you. I'm sure of it. He's really a treat to be around."

But Aidan didn't seem more than casually interested in that. "Who knows. If it happens, it happens, right?" He was smiling from ear to ear though when leading Dean through the beginner's level. "You haven't been with anyone else. That's kind of adorable. You're, what, thirty-eight or something? It's actually really sweet."

Aidan still loved flustering Dean, that hadn't changed. Richard would have reprimanded him with that amused look, and Aidan would have stopped his attempts at unsettling Dean for a short while.

The ache of loss gripped him unexpectedly strong.

"Yes. thirty-eight." Dean's eyes were on the screen. "Is there some sort of magical age cut-off line for getting laid?"

"I should hope not, I plan on making it to thirty-eight at least. Just that most people your age have been with more people than one." There was no bite to his words, for Aidan was still lost to his sadness.

"I did have a couple of chances," Dean said, in his own defense. On the large TV screen, his avatar picked up an ammo clip and loaded it into a submachine gun. He smiled in satisfaction. "I just wasn't ready until I met Richard. Is that weird?"

Aidan considered that. "Nah, not really. Hey, follow me. We need to go here." He pointed with his controller. "How do we keep doing this?" he asked. "Like one moment we can't stand each other and the next we're fine?"

Dean pondered this for a moment as he tried to remember which key combination to make his character crouch and crawl through a tunnel behind Aidan's. "I think," he said finally, "it's because we keep forgetting that we're supposed to hate each other. Don't worry," he turned to Aidan, blue eyes shining, "I'm sure I'll do something soon to remind you."

Next to him, Aidan snorted. "Oh, _that_ was it." He didn't think he hated Dean. They had never had much in common, and Richard had always been between them as much as he had brought them together time and again, expecting them to get along. But Dean wasn't a bad guy. It was just difficult, when the smallest thing could upset him these days and Dean was so easy to lash out against. "I think we've established by now that shooters are not your thing. Try something else? I think I've got some puzzle game lying around that—"

That Richard had given him.

"Actually, I was thinking," Dean sat his controller aside, "being that it's your mom and dad's last night in London... we should _all_ go out for dinner. I know you don't want to be seen in the wheelchair, but surely you can walk from my car into a restaurant on your own? And I happen to have a friend who's head chef at Artusi. They have incredible pasta, and their orange and almond cake is out of this world. What do you say? My treat."

Pausing the game again—they were both too unfocused on making it to the end of the level alive—Aidan thought about that. "...Maybe the wheelchair is okay. Just once. Getting there is no problem, but I'm worried about making it anywhere when we're done. I'm still supposed to be resting. You're a terrible nurse. Bugger it, I want pasta." He wanted _out_. "Artusi, are you for real? Isn't that the really fancy place?"

From outside the room, his mother peeked in. "We're going t—oh, hi Dean. Ah, right. We're going to be leaving at eight or so. Should give us time enough to make it to the airport. Your dad and I agreed that if you'd like that, we can come over in the weekends."

It seemed that, over the past few week, Dean had been bombarded with conflicting emotions over and over. He was eager to have more of his home to himself, yet he'd grown very fond of Angela and Danny. They were genuinely kind, warm and honest people. They were so unlike his own parents—and his in-laws—that it made Dean angry. What had Aidan done to deserve these two amazing people as his parents? They also served as a handy buffer between Dean and their son. Dean didn't want them to go. 

"I wish you two didn't have to leave, Angela," Dean told her. "It's been so nice having you here." _Almost as if I had a mother who cared about me, too,_ he wanted to tell her, but didn't want to sound pathetic. "Would you and Danny want to go out to dinner with us tonight? One last celebration for the road and all that?"

"Oh. Oh dear, wouldn't that get us in trouble with the flight? We're departing at ten thirty, and rush hour..." She trailed off, casting a furtive look at the other man to gage his opinion. They had been avoiding each other for days, and now they were ready to have dinner together?

"Early dinner?" Aidan however opted, rather hopeful to be getting out of the house and spending some time with his parents in a way that wasn't him sitting passively in a bed and needing help. "Dean says he knows someone at a pasta place."

"You're nearly packed up now, right?" Dean pleaded with her. "I'll drive you to the airport right after we eat and Aidan can see you off properly. My friend Stephen is head chef at Artusi. He can get me a table anytime. Will you let me call him?" Truth be told, Dean had been spoiled by having a kind, female influence over the past month. He wasn't so eager to see Angela, or Danny, go. And he knew that, despite Aidan's complaints of feeling smothered, he'd miss them as well. "It would mean a lot to me too," he added.

Angela saw a man who was clinging onto company. She wondered how that would work out for Aidan when they were gone. "Well, if we'd make it, then of course, but it feels wrong to ask you to use your contacts for us. If we're going, we're paying for you. You've done so much for Danny and me, the least of which is saving us hotel expenses. In that case though, what time should we be ready?"

Dean's face brightened. "Let me call Stephen first." He hoped his claim to be able to get into the popular restaurant wasn't a false one. "I'll let you know." More cheerful than either of them had seen him since Richard's death, he hopped out of the chair and left the room.

"You know," Angela sat down on the bed next to Aidan, "I had some concerns about the two of you constantly fighting—or just shutting one another out—once Danny and I went home. But seeing you in here today, hanging out, that's encouraging. You weren't doing it for my benefit were you?"

"You weren't here until a minute ago," Aidan replied with an unimpressed tone. He put away the controllers and switched off the TV, ignoring the Xbox for later. "I don't know what it is with him. One moment we're good, and the next can't stand him. I'll be glad once I can go out on my own again and can stop depending on him."

"Isn't that strange?" Angela smiled mysteriously. "Sounds a lot like me and your father when we first met." She patted Aidan's thigh smartly and got up to leave. "Get cleaned up, kid. We're taking you out on the town."

\- - - - - 

Dinner was everything they could have hoped for and more. Elusive chef Stephen didn't often leave his kitchen, but tonight he came to the Turners' table and sautéed their meals in front of them, talking and joking all the while. Dean could have kissed him for his kindness—for the way Aidan's eyes lit up for the first time in months.

The airport goodbye wasn't as dreadful as it could have been. Danny and Angela promised to come back in two weeks to check on "their boys." It wasn't lost on Angela how Dean turned away to hide his tears after she used that term.

"I really love your parents," Dean told Aidan in the quiet car as they entered the motorway to head back to the townhouse. 

In the passenger's seat, Aidan's mind was still at the airport. Tranquility enveloped him. "Hmm. I think they love you too. Mom probably worries as much about you as she does about me nowadays." His eyes followed the flashes of streetlights passing them by, his ear leaning against the window. "I haven't been around them for that long a time since I moved out. I'll miss them."

"They're good people," Dean told him, eyes seeking out a spot to merge. "It's a shame they don't live closer and we—I mean, _you_ could see them more often."

Aidan smiled to himself, a sleepy note in his comfort. He knew he was lucky. When he looked at Richard's parents, and Dean's by their absence, he could not fathom why people could be that cruel to their own children, just because they weren’t exactly what they’d hoped for. The moment Aidan had come out, his mother had simply told him she had always known, and hugged him to her chest.

"You too. You're friends now, it's okay if you say it."

Aidan slipped further into a pleasant doze. He awoke when the car slowed for the exit, but remained somewhat absent. By the time they met the next turn, he was again asleep.

\- - - - -

A week passed with the painful slowness that can only be the byproduct of being separated from a loved one. Dean made several attempts to enter his studio, but nothing productive came of it—only a profound sadness. One afternoon, he opened his wallet and pulled out the business card Adam had given him. The next day, he met Orlando Bloom.

Orlando was a licensed therapist Adam had met at a night of speed dating. 

_He's cute, at any rate,_ Adam had told Dean when he gave him Orlando's card. _If he can't soothe your aching heart, perhaps he can soothe another part of you._

Dean began group therapy the next day. Soul Survivors was a hodgepodge group of adults of all ages who had one thing in common. All had recently lost their spouses and were trying to make sense of their lives. Orlando, as facilitator, was patient and kind and allowed them all to speak. Dean didn't speak—or _share_ , as Orlando referred to it—until his third session.

Orlando asked them each to share with the group what they felt was the biggest thing holding them back in their recovery. Instead of asking to be passed over, Dean spoke.

"When I met Richard, I was a dreadful person. I mean, not dangerous or outright cruel, but I was selfish and more than a bit of a wise guy," Dean told them, staring down at his folded hands. "Back then, when something bad happened to me, I just laughed it off, drank it off or blew it off. Richard, in the years we were together, helped me stop doing that. He made me feel loved, trusted and like I could express my feelings. And I did. I changed. Not because he wanted me to, but because _I_ wanted to," he sniffled. They all cried. It was part of the process. "The problem is that now, I could really use some coaching from the old me—the me who excelled at getting over bad things and moving on. Right now, all I can think of is how much I ache, physically ache, for him. It feels like it will never get better. And it's affecting my work and how I'm treating other people. I want to be a better person. The person that Richard would have wanted me to be. But without him here, I'm struggling to be that guy."

Around the circle, heads were nodding in agreement. Dean felt better having spoken his worst fears aloud.

"You made a real breakthrough today, Dean," Orlando told him after the group began to disband. 

"Thanks," Dean smiled softly at him, wrapping a blue scarf around his neck to ward off the chill outside.

\- - - - - 

Aidan, on the other hand, was miserably tied to his bed. He couldn't go outside, unless it was on short walks that left him breathless at the end, and friends didn't stop by because he simply hadn't given anyone a heads-up about his recovery. He slept most of the day; he was permanently exhausted.

But things were getting better. And when he was awake, he was online.

The first few days, his pitiful self had looked up pictures of Richard and him. They were both smiling in all of them. Some of the pictures weren't that old. Imagining on several occasions how, less than a month from that picture on, Richard would no longer exist, was so depressing that Aidan eventually stopped looking at them.

Richard wasn't there. Aidan liked to pretend that one day he'd see him again, because that made his loss easier, and so Aidan had decided that when they met again, Aidan had better have something good to tell.

And so he had begun his search for good articles on writing. Penniless, he had asked his mother to lend him the money for a creative writing course and started out on his first assignment. Aidan spent the evenings, in which he was invariably awake, to scour the Internet for examples, attempt short stories and subsequently discover the frustrations of a writer's block when he jammed at the first few words of the first story to be written.

He guarded his folder with his sore attempts by giving his files the most ridiculous yet uninteresting names, which gave him more amusement than the actual writing. Aidan's first piece that reached a thousand words was about the names of those computer folders.

He didn't feel ready to share anything with the world until three weeks later, when his course declared that part of being a writer was being proud of what you wrote and letting others read it. He handed Dean—who had not been informed of him following a course until that point—a printed few sheets of paper that Tuesday afternoon, muttered "Tell me what you think?" and made sure he was out of the house while Dean read Richard's selected poem of Keats turned into prose.

Richard's former library was empty now, except for one chair and a lamp that Martin simply hadn't had room for in his home. It seemed like the appropriate place for reading, though. A glass of wine in one hand and Aidan's printout in the other, Dean settled down into the surprisingly comfortable chair to begin reading.

Thirty minutes later, the wine was untouched and Dean had read what Aidan had written four times over.

He heard the front door opening, signaling that Aidan had come back from his walk. Slowly, Dean emerged from the library and put the glass of wine on the dining room table. He approached Aidan as the other man was putting his jacket away in the hallway closet. 

"Did you really write this?" Dean asked, handing him the papers. His voice sounded as if he were struggling to reign in his emotions.

Aidan didn't respond at once. Out of breath, he found a spot on the first place he could sit—which ended up being the stairs—and waited until he was feeling better again. He was getting better, he could feel it, but he had pushed himself today. "I—yeah," he grinned, bearing a self-aware look. It wasn't perfect, he knew that, but then again perfection required the sacrifice of a lot of practice first. "I haven't written anything since college, but if you've got some pointers, that'd be amazing. I'm gonna let Mom read it too, but I thought, because it was Rich's poem..."

"I don't think you understand what I'm trying to tell you," Dean sat down on the stair step next to him, carefully giving thought to what he was about to say. "What you wrote, Aidan... when I was reading it, it was as if Richard were sitting there, speaking to me. His words, his language. It was as if his hand were on my shoulder."

The feeling had both terrified Dean and filled him with comfort. "So, I'm asking again... _is this your work?_ "

"My words, my language," smiled Aidan. "That's a good thing, isn't it?"

_Except...._ The word very nearly left Dean's lips. "I am thinking," he said instead, "that Richard was wise to choose you to take over writing the Coventry series. He knew exactly what he was doing, as always." Terrified he might burst into tears in front of Aidan, he got to his feet, brusquely. "We should set up a writing studio for you, then. Richard's old library, maybe? You'd need a desk, of course."

Aidan was quick to reach for his hand and hold him back. "Oh no. No, not yet. I can hardly sit up long enough to need a desk, and the library..." The library felt wrong. Richard's heart had been in that library, and it was empty now. Aidan paused. "You believe I'm able to pick up Coventry? Like this, really? You really haven't got any pointers? I'm actually supposed to submit other people's constructive criticism for this week's assignment."

Dean blinked and a fat tear ran from each eye, tears he wasn't quick enough to hide from Aidan. "You've captured his spirit with what you've written," Dean whispered. "It's as if he wrote it himself. I don't know what else I could possibly tell you," he managed. "I—I need to go make dinner..."

The hallway was soon one man emptier. His eyes unfocused when he realized what he had done, Aidan said into that silence, "I'm sorry."

He shouldn't have picked that poem. Any poem would have been acceptable, yet Richard's poem had been the only one that had appealed to him. The images were vivid and begging to be written, and so Aidan had. Of course it would remind Dean of Richard.

Perhaps he shouldn't have shown Dean until other people had read it first.

Aidan folded the papers and walked back to the studio on sock-clad feet. He was quiet when he closed the door, slipped into his pajamas and into bed. There he stared at his laptop. Everything was Richard these days. His dreams took him into hidden memories, his words recalled a spirit that had once been, and Aidan even found himself looking into Keats with more interest than before.

Was that normal?

Dinner was grilled cheese sandwiches, thick with good cheddar, with mugs of tomato soup. It had begun to snow since Aidan came back from his walk, and the meal was a perfect foil for the dreary weather. Dean lit a fire and sat before it with his meal balanced on his lap, staring moodily into the flames as if willing them to speak to him. 

He took a bite of his sandwich at length, barely tasting it. Suddenly, the urge struck him to draw. Setting the plate aside, he rushed up the stairs two at a time. This time, when he picked up the charcoal, his hands didn't fail him.

\- - - - -

Aidan knew he was in trouble when the morning that followed, he woke half atop several scribbled pieces of paper of which three logged, in several concise keywords per note, dreams in which he was Richard.

_With Dean. Sunrise. Mountains. Warm._

_Library. Eyes shut. Flying. Falling. Feel sick. Martin?_

_Fucking Dean. Stop it, ffs. Morocco. Blue. No holding hands in public. Not on top._

He groaned and got out of bed; they needed to talk.

Dean looked as if he hadn't slept a wink when Aidan came upon him at the breakfast nook, a cup of strong coffee and his laptop in front of him.

"I've started the Osiris painting again," Dean told him. "I hope you won't be offended if I'm unable to use you as my model."

Aidan felt actually disappointed, sliding onto a stool opposite him. "That's... that's good. Why not? Weren't you almost done with your studies?"

"It came to me last night," Dean's eyes met his. "Osiris has to have Richard's face."

Aidan stilled. Of course. King of the Dead. There hardly was a face less Egyptian than that with Richard's ice water eyes and strong jaw, but nobody could away take his title. It was only natural, although it did leave Aidan with a feeling of being discarded. "Did you start on it yet? Can I see?"

Dean nodded, biting his lip, conflicted. "Can you come upstairs?"

Aidan could try.

With the moment to bring up his dreams gone, he followed Dean up the steps and into his makeshift studio. He hadn't been since the day of his collapse—the day Richard died. Rolls of unused canvas and jars filled with brushes met him, as did the scent of paint drying. "You've been working," he noticed with amazement.

"I have. Some," Dean told him. "I started this last night around supper time," he led Aidan around a larger piece of stretched canvas that lay in a patch of sunshine.

On it were the beginnings of Osiris. The painting was half gold and warm tones and half silvery dark, but this was only hinted at. In the center of the canvas stood a figure in robes that billowed out behind him. His arms were upraised, powerfully and held to each side with the palms outward, as if to ward off or hold back something approaching from both the dark and the light. The figure wore a tall, Egyptian hat that was yet to be completed. His face was Richard's, the eyes ice blue and fiercely commanding. At the same time, Osiris appeared gentle, overwhelmed and terrified.

"He'll be holding back armies of the dead and the living," Dean explained. "They fear him, but he can barely contain them. The dead are struggling madly in an effort to come back to the land of the living. The living are struggling just as madly to send to many of their own to the grave. Osiris alone has the power to decide who goes through, and in which direction. It's exhausting, yet he is eternal."

"That's... beautiful."

And it was. The painting had the bearings of a masterpiece. Once completed, Aidan knew people would want to have it. He wasn't sure whether Dean wanted to sell it, though. Osiris resembled Richard well, like he had modeled for the piece only yesterday. But then again, Richard would have modeled for Dean countless times. The artist's worship of his muse was obvious.

Aidan smiled at the painting, halfway towards crying. "It'll be one of your best works."

"I'm sorry I didn't use you for this one, Aidan," Dean told him. "It had to be Richard. I hope you understand why." He studied Aidan's face for a moment. "Ra. You'll be Ra, God of the Sun, I think. That is, if you still want to."

There was little love Dean received for offering Aidan that comfort prize. "Make a series out of it. I'm sure there are gods for Martin and Adam, in there. Why not yourself?"

It _was_ a series. Aidan knew this. At least he might have if, instead of fawning all over Richard, he had spent more of his time paying attention to what was going on with anybody else. Dean also didn't feel like trying to explain to Aidan the panicky feelings he'd had for the past five weeks each time he tried to pick up a brush or pencil. 

It had to be the therapy helping him. And it was therapy that kept him from giving words to these feelings.

"You're very handsome, Aidan," Dean told him. "I'll be using your face. That's a promise. And I'm glad you're here for me to be able to."

_He'd be using his face._ Aidan had stopped being impressed with Dean's words, and it showed. As cool as being the Sun God might be, it was something offered only because his original role was taken. It was like he was in the theater all over again. But the last thing he wanted was to be envious of Richard, who didn't deserve Aidan's resentment. Certainly not over something that Dean had decided for him. "Well, you've got the sketches. Do what you will with them. I meant to ask you earlier, have you ever been in Morocco with Rich?"

"We did go there, yes," Dean told him. "I suppose you could say it was our honeymoon. We both loved the movie _Casablanca_ , and wanted to see what it was like down there. It was beautiful, but everything was really, really expensive. Why do you ask?"

"You couldn't hold hands in public though, right?"

Dean tilted his head to the side. "No, no. We couldn't do anything romantic, actually. They have very stringent rules about public displays of affection between gay couples there. It was... well, it was actually kind of frightening. I'd never go back."

Aidan nodded. "Okay. Thanks." He gestured to the door. "I think I'm going to schedule in an appointment with Dr. Pace now, then get something to eat. Lovely work, really. Do keep it up."

"Wait a minute," Dean lay a stilling hand on Aidan's arm. "Are you feeling sick? Shit, I shouldn't have had you come up here!"

"I'm fine! It's just—" he waved about with his hands, frustrated, "—it's the bloody dreams again. You're painting Richard and I'm dreaming about him, and I can live with the first, even though you could have told me first, but I'm getting very much tired of the latter. Maybe he can get me sleeping pills, or it at least gives me a reason to see him again."

"I'm sorry you're dreaming of Richard. Sorry that it's upsetting you, at least," Dean told him. "I want to, Aidan. I'd give anything for him to visit my dreams. Wait... doesn't Dr. Pace live in America?"

"Oh. Right." What hope was there, left. Dr. Pace had been a nice doctor, and Aidan had simultaneously enjoyed imagining several flights of fancy. Having been around for more than a month, Aidan had forgotten Dr. Pace would have to go back one day. "Doesn't it concern you in the least that I'm dreaming about things that obviously happened in the past? What if I start dreaming about things that haven't yet happened? Not to mention they're all Richard's memories with you. Dean, I'm serious, it's driving me mad."

"You dreamed of Morocco too?" Dean wondered. "It's probably because Richard told you about these things—and even if you've forgotten them until now, they are still deep in your subconscious. That's how dreams work, right?"

"I don't know, Dean, but I'm pretty sure Richard hasn't told me everything I see. You're not taking this seriously. If you saw what I do when I sleep, you wouldn't be saying that." Aidan refused to allow dreaming about sex with Dean to be a ploy of his subconscious. "Things are different since he died. I came across a statue in the park just now and I _remembered_ things. I've never been there in my life! It's secluded," he added, because Dean clearly didn't believe him, "which is probably exactly why you two went there."

"Isis," Dean surmised. "There's an Isis statue in Hyde Park. Not a lot of people go there. It's actually what inspired me to start the Egyptian series. Richard has to have told you about all this. How else could you know?"

"I see you're finally catching on. Sometimes I honestly feel like he is here, and he's uploading all these things into my memory or something. It's not a nice thing, Dean. Sleeping pills, if someone's going to provide me with sleeping pills, then yes please."

"Ah, yes," Dean grinned, but it was not a mirthful one. "Richard's ghost is haunting you, implanting memories for you to dream about. Is he in the room with us right now?"

"... Sod off, Dean. I'll ask my mom to drive me if you think it's one big joke." Aidan turned on his heels and left.

Dean didn't find it funny. Not at all. If anything, he wanted to knock Aidan to the ground and punch him.

_That's not a very healthy way to express your anger,_ he could hear Orlando's voice in his head. This only made him want to punch Orlando as well.

"Wait up!" Dean followed him out, albeit reluctantly, of the room. "Of course I'll take you, Aidan. Whatever you need to feel like yourself, okay? I made promises—to Richard and your parents—to take care of you. I'm not about to drop the ball. I just wish..."

"...You just wish it was you." Aidan sighed, pausing by the door with slack shoulders. "I know. I don't understand what's happening to me. I can't—it's frustrating, you know. You don't think I know exactly how stupid I sound? _Maybe it's his ghost?_ I don't even believe in ghosts. I miss him, but these dreams... I wish it was you, Dean. They're telling me things I didn't even want to know."

"I've never seen a ghost," Dean told him, thumb worrying the cremation ring Richard had given him, "but that doesn't mean I'm unwilling to believe. Maybe Richard feels you need to know this stuff. Maybe it's supposed to help you in your writing. If anyone were persistent enough to return as a ghost, it'd be Richard, wouldn't it?" He sighed sadly. "I miss him so much, Aidan. I know it's supposed to get better in time, but right now that's impossible to conceive. Would you like me to make the appointment for you? In the meantime, you could try something over-the-counter, if you wanted to, right?" 

"Mixing wouldn't be smart. I'm on a lot of meds right now." 

They were both lost as they stood there in the void that Richard had created. The rules were unclear on how to proceed from the edge upon which they were balanced. To fall would be so easy. Aidan had seen two or three deaths in his life. Even so, the strength of his emotions after Richard's continued to be overwhelming. 

Suddenly Aidan moved in and hugged Dean. They were really in this together. Thanks to some wry play of the fates, only they could comprehend what the other was going through. And Aidan could practically sense Dean's despair. "Please make the appointment," he whispered. "I'm sorry you lost him." 

Dean was stiff at the hug, surprised at Aidan's actions. They barely tolerated one another. And they most decidedly did not hug. 

And _yet._


	14. He's Not So Terrible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aidan tells Dean what he needs in order to recover. Dean has a dream of his own.

Dean allowed himself to relax into the embrace, and put his arms around Aidan's waist, all too conscious of the pressure bandage still around Aidan's chest. "Y-you shouldn't be doing this, Aidan," he protested. "You'll hurt yourself."

"I'll take care," murmured Aidan, who found himself having teary eyes and with a lump in his throat. Richard would be proud, he thought, but that wasn't why he did it. He needed the consolation just as much as Dean did. "Just a few seconds. I'll figure out what to do with the pills later."

As they stood there, Dean allowed his arms to tighten around Aidan, giving him the comfort he so sorely needed. Aidan didn't have a partner. He didn't have close friends. He'd had only _Richard._ Dean needed to remember that. "It's gonna get better," he assured Aidan, even if he didn't completely buy into it. "The day will come when we'll be able to think about him and not fall apart."

"But how can he be gone, Dean? It feels like he was here yesterday. He's never coming back, and I'm almost angry at him for it. I won't hear his voice again, or see him smile when he thinks I'm doing something stupid—I know that's what he thought, but he always just smiled. To say that I miss him feels so empty. It's so much more than knowing he's not here. It's like a crater in the world, an absence where there should be something. It's _wrong_."

"Anger's a common response when someone dies," Dean told him gently. "I know I was plenty angry—at you, for being sick; at myself for telling him to hurry and get to the hospital, and at Richard for up and dying on me. On _us,_ " he corrected. "Now, I can't even remember if I kissed him that morning before he left for work. I think I did, but I'm not sure."

Aidan smiled through his tears. "You did. You always did. And judging from how he looked, it was always the best way for him to start the day."

That, and Aidan had dreamed about it.

He extracted himself slowly, his hand wiping at the corner of his eye. "Sorry. I needed that, I guess. Thanks, anyway, for letting me. I think I'm going to go for a quick nap. Caring is tiring, apparently. I'll let you know about that Sun God thing, okay?"

"Sleep well," Dean called after him. Dean too was tired. He had drawn and painted all night, getting a few fitful hours of sleep in the early morning hours. The king sized bed was painfully empty without Richard in it. Every now and then a phantom smell would waft through the bedroom, as if Richard had just stepped from the shower and was about to join him.

It hurt, physically hurt, missing Richard. At least sleep brought some reprieve. Dean still had a few of Jed's Alprazolam left, and a refill on the prescription. He went into the bathroom and swallowed one, then curled up on the gold couch in the upstairs guest room under an afghan.

When he woke up, the house was dark.

\- - - - -

Aidan had slept for an hour, before having sneaked downstairs to try and write something while claiming the comfortable chair—with his injury, there really was only one. But around noon he had started to wonder about Dean's whereabouts.

He found him not long thereafter, smiled, and closed the curtains. Aidan had not seen him asleep so peacefully since Richard's accident. Dean wouldn't mind sleeping a few hours extra, he thought.

Keys in hand, he had ventured outside and decided to just see if the neighbors were home. They were his neighbors now too, after all. It was time he said hi, so Aidan was disappointed when nobody turned out to be home.

He had returned to the house, found a window with lots of sun, and closed his eyes. An early March sun warmed his skin and his spirits, reminding him of grass and laughter and returning strength.

Somehow, Keats came to mind.

A kiss to Aidan's forehead, barely there, interrupted his thoughts. "You look like an angel sitting there in that patch of sun," Dean told him, eyes filled with love. He sat next to Aidan on the window ledge. "What were you thinking about?"

Aidan did not open his eyes. He knew that voice by heart. "Poetry," said he. "Still am. I'm thinking of writing, but I can't be bothered to move. The sun is nice today. Sit with me?"

"I already am," Dean breath was warm and sweet against his neck, and his arm wrapped around Aidan's waist, fingers straying up beneath the tails of his shirt. "I called you for dinner, but you didn't answer. Scared me."

A kiss was what he received in reply. Slow and leisurely, Aidan moved his lips in a dance against Dean's. He did not open his eyes even when he leaned the back of his head against the weight of the other man. "Sorry. I must have dozed off. I did not spoil anything, did I?"

"I was just worried," Dean snuggled in closer. "What if I lost you? Who would take care of me?"

"You would," chuckled Aidan. "You're a grown man. I was honestly just being lazy in the sun. You can't get rid of me that easily, Dean." In the mellow afternoon light, his hand moved over that of Dean's, the one exploring the skin at the hem of his shirt. "It's a beautiful day. Stay awhile."

"Yeah," Dean's teeth found his earlobe and nibbled, breath hot. "All right love." Aidan could smell in Dean's hair the scent of sautéed vegetables and herbs. Dean's other hand crept up into his hair, gently easing his head to one side, granting Dean access to his neck. "Mmm, you smell so good," Dean murmured against the flesh. 

Aidan hummed in understanding. Dean was particularly partial to the musk he favored when he wanted to feel like he was going somewhere not too formal, even if he ended up not going anywhere. It was the scent he wore when he got down to writing. A silly ritual, to wear it for oneself—until Aidan had found out how much Dean liked it.

He tipped his head back and allowed him all the access he wanted. "Are you tempting me to give up my spot?"

"Give it up?" Dean chuckled. "Um, no." He climbed on top of Aidan, straddling him. I was hoping maybe we could share it." He began kissing line down Aidan's neck, opening buttons as he went, pausing when he got to the white bandage on Aidan's chest, confused. "I—I..." he looked up into Aidan's eyes, as if seeing him there for the first time. 

"Aidan!" he gasped.

Dean woke with a sharp cry. He found himself alone on the gold couch in the guest bedroom. Someone had come in and closed the curtains and turned on a dim light in the corner. He had a raging hard on. "What the fuck?" he whispered.

He wasn't left alone for long. Roused from the startled sound, a knock came three minutes later. Around the edges of concern, a voice asked, "Are you all right? I heard a sound."

Disoriented and disheveled, Dean replied, "M'alright, Aidan. I... I just had a bad dream." He winced at his own description of what had just occurred. It hadn't been _all_ bad, until he realized he was making out with his nemesis. "You shouldn't be running up the stairs like that!" he added in admonishment.

Aidan came in. Richard never mentioned Dean sleeping naked, or anything else that might have stopped him. "Oh, come on, I didn't run that far. I was just in the study enjoying the sun."

"Oh... hey," Dean pulled more of the afghan into his lap, effectively disguising his erection. "You shouldn't be checking on me. It's supposed to be the other way around."

"Then you shouldn't have yelled like it's World War Three. You're okay then? You want anything? I'm up anyway, and I'm getting a bit bored sleeping the day away."

"I'm okay," Dean insisted. "I just... well, it was a really vivid dream. I think it's the Alprazolam. Makes me have weird dreams." Dean's hair, which he hadn't cut in over a year, was a curly, golden mess. "I didn't mean to scare you," he said apologetically, pushing a few tendrils out of his face.

" _Oh!_ " Of course! The flustered look, the tension that he was trying to hide, and then _vivid_. Whoever still used the word 'vivid' when it wasn't about a wet dream? That, and Dean didn't look out of it enough for it to have been an actual nightmare. "That's okay. I should get going, anyway. Have to finish homework. Let me know when you're making dinner." Aidan smiled encouragingly, and then quickly disappeared.

"Oh, _Christ,_ " Dean muttered, falling back on the couch. _I shouldn't have hugged him,_ he thought to himself. That had to be the reason. Richard had been gone for a month. Dean was far from being a sex fiend, but his body was certainly reeling from the loss of regular attention. 

He got up, then, the afghan wrapped protectively around him and peeked out the door. When he saw the coast was clear, he hurried to his bedroom, where he climbed into the shower. There, in private, he touched himself. He was both distressed and fascinated by the fact that he couldn't stop thinking about Aidan while he did it. 

He allowed the hot, pulsating water wash away his sins.

\- - - - - 

At dinner, he had trouble looking Aidan in the eye.

Aidan, on the other hand, covered up his discomfort by chatting away. He talked about his mother, who was coming over that weekend and was planning on taking him for a bit of a trip. Not too far, he assured, just a little further than his usual radius around the house. Maybe they could find a nice café for lunch.

He continued on his homework and the things the other people in his online class were writing; that there was this one woman who continued to write about babies, and it was getting annoying. So he wrote a story about old people instead, who passed babies by and thought them helpless little fog horns. She hadn't read it yet, but he was looking forward to hearing about it when she did.

When that monologue dried up, he nudged Dean's knee under the table with his foot. "You're cooking new things lately, aren't you?"

At the touch, Dean was roused from whatever reverie he'd been in. "I like babies," Dean told him, telegraphing that he'd only heard about half of what Aidan had said. "Always have. There's something very empowering about holding a tiny little bundle of life in your arms."

"Actually, I was talking about food," Aidan supplied. He frowned. "So why did you and Richard never have kids?"

Dean chuckled. "This isn't science fiction, Aidan. Neither of us are able to carry a baby to term."

"Adoption, idiot. Or get someone to carry it for you." Aidan snorted. "Science, Dean, is not what it has been. Where _is_ your mind?"

He cursed himself when he realized what he'd said.

"— _Anyway_. I was wondering why you're cooking new things lately. I mean, not that I'm complaining, but tagine? That's definitely new."

"I was browsing cooking sites last week and found this whole site dedicated to tagines. The descriptions made my mouth water, so I went out and bought the pot," Dean shrugged. "Isn't it amazing how tender and flavorful the chicken is?" He rolled his eyes. "I may never eat another type of stew again." 

He carefully avoided Aidan's question about children. Dean would have loved a son or daughter, but his fears of treating his own child as poorly as his parents had treated him had always held him back from giving fatherhood serious consideration.

They looked at each other, both a fork in hand, the earthen tagine—probably an expensive brand—in their midst. Aidan couldn't figure out whether that statement had been sarcastic or whether Dean was genuine. It did taste good. It also felt like a thing to talk about when otherwise there'd be deadly silence between them. 

Aidan knew about Dean's dream. Not to the point where he could tell details, but he knew. They were both men, and it wasn't the worst that could happen. But whereas he'd laugh about it with other friends, it seemed to make Dean highly uncomfortable.

It was tiring. Aidan decided he would have some fun.

"So, your nightmare. What was it about?"

Dean's fork trembled in his hand. He cleared his throat. "I dreamed I did something that I shouldn't," he answered quietly, "with someone that I shouldn't have done it with."

Now, that proved to be interesting. Aidan sat up—and quickly returned to his previous posture when a sharp ache pierced through his chest. His food was forgotten. "Still no dreams of Richard?"

Dean eyed Aidan with growing concern. He knew that look, even if Aidan wasn't mentioning it.

"I thought it might have been Richard when the dream began," Dean told him, watching Aidan for signs of trouble, "but it turned out not to be."

Aidan winced, but tried to make it through the initial pain. It usually faded quickly. "It's what I think it is, isn't it?" he asked.

Dean put down his fork, and purposefully reached for the glass of wine in front of him. He took a generous swig, then another.

"It was just a dream," he shrugged, then took another sip. "I just hugged you. And, you see, I fell asleep thinking about the Ra painting. It was bound to happen."

What Dean hadn't considered was that with all his prodding, Aidan had not suspected the identity of the person Dean shouldn't have done it with. He did now. "Oh my god!" he exclaimed, grinning—because it was the easiest way to discard his increasing awkwardness, let alone if he considered that he had been having dreams of Dean in a very similar way—"You get around, Dean!"

"It was just a dream, Aidan," Dean told him, eyes downcast. "You should know that we can't control what we dream. Can we?" He took another long swig of wine. 

"I should stop asking you about this," Aidan clutched his waist under the table. "It's just...unexpected, I guess. But you're right. Life would have been much easier if we could. I'm not going to mention it again, okay? It's a compliment, really."

"You're in pain, aren't you?" Dean asked him, getting out of his seat. "You shouldn't be having pain."

"I'm in pain every hour of the day." But the other man didn't sound so confident anymore. "I think I strained myself. I'll finish my food and claim the couch, if that's all right." He was almost done with his dinner, after all, and it did taste good. The pain was already ebbing away. "I'm done with 'recovering'. Let it be summer and let me be done with it all."

"Your chest was ripped open—your ribs separated," Dean reminded him. "Injuries like that don't heal quickly. Dr. Pace said you have to spend most of the first six weeks in bed. And it's not been six weeks yet, has it? You've been out _walking_ , mate. I think you should probably curtail that activity for a bit, don't you?"

Aidan moaned, "I'm sick of lying in bed. My back gets sore from constantly lying in the same position, and I get bored. You try being in bed with nothing to do for six weeks straight. It's impossible."

"I've tried to keep you company, but you keep shooing me away," Dean told him. "I told you I'd bring in any form of entertainment you wished. Is there someone you'd like me to call for you? An old boyfriend? Luke, maybe?"

Well, that would just be callous to accept, right after Dean had pretty much admitted having had a sexual dream containing Aidan. Aidan shook his head. "Luke would just try to convince me to move more." That was what tended to happen when they were in the same bedroom together, at least, when neither of them was seeing anyone. "Luke can come over in a couple of weeks. And Mom is coming over this weekend. It's just boring in between. I need—" Aidan canted his head sideways. "Do you know card games?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah, sure. I know a few games. And we can look rules for others up online, can't we? And your father left the board games behind. We have some too. We can play whatever you want. I could," here he paused, "I could see if Adam would want to come play as well. Maybe a fourth. You know those games aren't so much fun with just two," Dean picked up his fork again. "Whatever you want, Aidan."

"Martin? But if you ask them, could you sort of pretend they're there for you and I happen to be around, instead of for me?" 

Another sharp pain had Aidan realizing that he needed to get to the couch _now_ , regardless of food or Dean. He got up, kept his spine as straight as he could, and made the traversal. "I'm serious," he called from the other side of the back of the couch. "Cards. Something snarky. Make me laugh."

"Can I get you something for the pain?" Dean followed after him. He tried not to fuss over Aidan as he lay down on the couch, instead busying himself with putting a log on the fire and lighting some candles. 

A sound told him that it was fine. Aidan had overexerted himself, that was all. He turned his head to follow the other man around as he moved. It was easy to distract himself with the question what—if Dean had dreamed about him—they had done in his dream. But it wasn't fair. "Your dream," he said softly, scraping his voice when it came out hoarse, "it's all right. Now you understand why I need sleeping pills. I'm sorry for being such a bother. Not being able to do anything is frustrating. Could you, I don't know, talk about something?"

Dean pulled an ottoman near the fireplace and sat down upon it. "Sure. Yeah, I can do that. When I was falling asleep, I was thinking about my plans for Ra—for you. In the mythology, he's often depicted as a falcon, or a man with a falcon's head. I envision a helmet or crown evocative of a falcon, but worn by a man with your features. Your hair has to show, of course, because it's just so perfectly lustrous." Dean was so lost to his description that he didn't see the smile creep onto Aidan's face. "Ra is serene, standing in the sun, soaking it in, head raised proudly because it shines for him. I..." he then turned to notice Aidan's expression. "Does that sound too cheesy?"

"Hmm, no, it's nice to know the sun shines for you. But I could imagine, since he must be the most powerful of them all, that he's cocky. I don't know enough about Egyptian mythology, I'm afraid. Is he benevolent? He's the God of the Sun in Egypt, so the people must have been done with him from time to time during droughts, right? Maybe he doesn't really care about the people? Maybe they're like ants to him, and he lets them live because that's his fancy for the day." Aidan turned a hopeful look on Dean. "Is that something?"

Dean chuckled to himself, because Aidan's description called to mind a small boy with a magnifying glass using the sun to burn ants to death. "I think," he turned to Aidan with a smile, "the sun was very important to Egyptians. It sustained life, yes, but too much of it could wipe out life. Ra had to benevolent, but I imagine he did have a bit of a temper too."

"Benevolent and tempestuous, got it. Who are you also planning on painting? Which gods will they be?"

"So far, I've only done Isis, Anubis and Sobek," Dean told him. "While I don't want to paint them all, I had designs on Osiris, Ra, Bastet and Horus."

"Tell me about them?" asked Aidan. "Who do you have in mind? Which gods are they?"

He soon forgot about the ebbing pains in his chest, until they were eventually gone. Aidan couldn't wait to go outside and see the world again, but for now it was pleasant to lie here and have someone talk to him with the same patience Richard had always had with Aidan's curiosity. Not that Aidan planned on letting Dean know. 

Theirs, he thought, was a strange friendship. Two men living under the same roof, who couldn't stand each other from time to time. Well, it was a big roof. When they needed a timeout, it wasn't hard to avoid one another. Aidan didn't want to think about how expensive it would be to maintain this house.

He eventually got up, put his leftover food in the microwave, and sat down on the couch again. Aidan didn't want to go back to his bed. He liked the human interaction. "How do you do it?" he continued. "When inspiration strikes, how do you start painting?"

And so they talked more, and hours passed.

It had been several years since anyone had asked Dean for an interview, so it was refreshing to talk about his art again. He told Dean about a school field trip to the Auckland art gallery Toi o Tamaki, and how, on that day, he had decided he wanted to be an artist. He really didn't know much about art, and had never really drawn anything other than a doodle, but when he got home that day he began.

He talked about how a trip to Hyde Park with Richard had led to him seeing the Isis status, and awoken a long-held, but little-explored, interested in Egyptology. He told Aidan what he could remember about the gods and goddesses. What he couldn't remember, he looked up on the internet and they looked at photos on the laptop together of other artists' renderings, and of hieroglyphics and pyramids.

When Dean looked up and saw it was one o'clock in the morning, he was surprised. He hadn't dwelled on missing Richard—other than a strong pang when he talked about the trips to the park—for hours. Maybe Orlando was right. Maybe things would get better.

\- - - - - 

"Aidan and I are getting along better," Dean told Martin over two bowls of soup the next day in the university cafeteria. He watched Martin carefully to judge his reaction.

"You and the enfant terrible?" Martin replied in unsugared words, but a hint of humor nonetheless. "How? You both have a part of the house and you're trying not to cross into enemy territory when you can?" He took a sip from his tomato soup, keeping his eyes on his friend for the answer.

"We've been talking," Dean raised his eyebrows, "like people. It seems to help him feel better—you know, take his mind off the pain."

"And does it help you? You haven't been the best of friends, if I recall correctly. Well, you must understand my small concern."

"He's not _so_ terrible," Dean told him. "I've been making an effort to try and see him through Richard's eyes. And, to be honest, since he's started writing, he's a lot less... _Aidan._ Does that make any sense?"

Martin laughed at Dean's apt description. "Less hyperactive and compulsive, you mean? Aidan's... Aidan's a good guy, but he can be exhausting. To be honest, I'm surprised he is taking to writing. When Richard's will said it was to be him to continue Coventry, I thought not another book would be published ever. How is his writing? Do you think he'll get there?"

"Okay," Dean leaned forward, "promise me you're not going to laugh? He writes like Richard. He handed me one of his samples and it was as if Richard were sitting there reading to me. It's, well, it's frightening, really."

"We're talking about the same Aidan?"

Dean leaned back in his chair. "I've given it some thought," he offered, "and I think that maybe his brush with death changed him. I think he's re-evaluated things and is a lot less carefree. He's a bit more intense now. As if he's trying to do _more._ "

Martin considered that. "More intense in a good way, I take it? It's a new experience, hearing you defend him. I can't say you're doing a good job at keeping me disinterested here. I think I'd have to drop by sometime, Dean." He stirred the last few spoonfuls around. "Or perhaps you two would like to come over? Does his health permit that? The library is almost done. You'd probably like it."

Dean wasn't terribly eager to see Richard's beloved book collection in someone else's home. Not yet.

"Truth be told," he leaned into Martin, "we'd like you to come over. You and Adam both. Aidan specifically requested a night of playing cards. Maybe some board games. You could, of course, bring whatever alcohol you wanted," he smiled. "I think he'd really benefit from having other people around. People other than me and his parents. It's horrible to say, but I think, aside from Richard, he didn't have any close friends, and he's hurting for it."

"Someone like Aidan? Doesn't he have the pick of the mill?" Opposite Dean, Martin was definitely surprised. "I thought he had all sorts of important actor friends. He certainly seemed to be bathing in everyone's attention. He was around Richard very often, but I never thought... oh, well. You know, cards and alcohol does sound nice. I haven't done an old-fashioned evening of cards in a long time. Is he still on meds? I suppose he is. Sucks, that'll be just a cola for him."

"He's on a lot of meds. For pain, anti-rejection..." Dean enumerated, then grew quieter. "He struggles to make friends and really struggles to hold onto a lover. I've only ever looked at him through the eyes of a jealous husband. I'm trying to look at him now as a friend. It's not quite as hard as I thought it might be. He still drives me mad, don't get me wrong. His room's a disaster," he chuckled, but fondly. "Even, convalescing, he's like a hurricane."

"Ah, there's the Aidan I know."

While he waited for Dean to finish his soup, Martin looked for the waiter. He could do with a good cup of coffee. Spring was rearing its behind at last, but it was still nippy in the streets, and any reason to enjoy a hot beverage was one he'd take. He ordered both of them a good cup, then leaned back in his chair and stretched. "You're different, yourself," he noticed. "You look like you're doing better. That's good. Do you know what you're going to do with the ashes yet?"

"The St. Ives vacation is paid for," Dean told him, pain flashing in his eyes. "Richard wanted to be scattered in the sea. It was fate, I suppose."

Currently, Richard's ashes were sitting at home on the mantel of the fireplace in their bedroom in a beautiful blown glass cremation urn. "Is it selfish of me to not want to dump him in the ocean?"

Martin shook his head. "They're what remains of him. Of course you're entitled to keep the ashes. But it's no longer Richard, Dean. You could keep the urn at home, but would it honestly do you any good? Personally, the very idea of his ashes make me sad."

"I know it's not Richard. I know that, Martin," Dean looked on the verge of tears. "But I talk to it as if it's him. I feel safer with that urn there on the shelf. It's something I need. I'm sure that sounds crazy. Don't worry, I'm not taking him for walks in the park, or out for ice cream or anything," he smiled, trying to break the tension.

"Richard wouldn't have wanted you to remember him by his ashes, Dean. Keep it for a few months, then let it go. Don't let your strongest memory of him be that urn." But Dean had Martin's sympathy. "It's hard to think of him and not see him in his coffin."

"I don't want to start crying in the middle of the cafeteria, Martin," Dean admonished him. "Just tell me you'll come... a week from Friday. Seven o'clock. Bring whatever you like to drink. I'll have food ready. You can bring a date, you know," he smiled suggestively, trying valiantly to shift the topic away from Richard.

Martin gave him the eye. "When in the last three years have I introduced you to a date? But fine, fine, I'm in. Wine and cards on a Friday night; you had better turn it into some shady form of poker in a foggy room with lots of fake money bills, or mahjong, or something. Give me something I'll smile about on Saturday and I'm in."

Dean couldn't help smiling back. "Is there anyone in particular—anyone you might have met among Richard's friends or mine—that you'd _like_ me to invite? Or shall I just let you put those smooth moves of yours on Aidan?"

Martin's mouth fell open. "Are you encouraging me to hit on Aidan?"

"I think he could benefit from some positive attention," Dean said thoughtfully. "You don't have to jump his bones or anything. But I don't think he'd mind the flirtation. It might make him start to feel better all around."

"Dean... you do know how I feel about Aidan, don't you? Specifically, his incessant energy and the need to make himself look like the world is revolving around him. Why on earth would you think I'd encourage that?"

"You're right," Dean nodded. "He is a handful. I'm not asking you to marry the guy. I know that I've treated him poorly in the past. I'm trying to make up for it. He's been really," Dean's face wore a faraway look, " _sweet_ lately."

"Sweet?" Martin was startled. "Then why don't you? I don't need a new person in my life, Dean, and when I do, I'd prefer someone who's not Aidan. That you're asking me this in all honesty is making me very uncomfortable. Fine, I'll admit, and very curious. You're changing."

"Me?" Dean blushed. "I, well, I have been trying to be nicer to Aidan. I mean, let's face it, we both lost the most important person in our lives. He's been through major surgery. He's literally had his heart ripped out. Me, figuratively. But aside from his parents he doesn't seem to have much of a support system. He needs it, Martin. I'm trying really hard to open my heart to him right now."

Martin hummed over coffee. "That's admirable. But if you're trying to set Aidan up, your best chances are with someone who fits the description, not with me. Like that ex with the motorcycle jacket at the hospital, the one his mother invited. Tall, dark and handsome—that's obviously not describing you or me. If Aidan's still the Aidan I know, he's going to want something spectacular." He took in a deep breath, and let it go with a contented sigh. "I don't know what they're putting in this coffee, but it's exactly what I needed. God, haven't been able to wake up all morning. There's been a construction site right out the door for three days now. I wake up to hammering and go to bed with construction lights still coming through the curtains. Dreadful business, Dean."

"You could come spend a couple of nights at my place," Dean suggested. "You know I have the room." His thoughts flew back to that day in the hospital where he'd met Luke. He remembered the leather jacket and his dark eyes, but that was pretty much it. The rest of the details were lost. But then... "Ah yes, he did give me his card." Dean pulled out his wallet and fished out the small gray, tasteful business card. _Luke Evans,_ it read. _Customizations_.

"What's Customizations?" Dean wondered. "Cars, d'you think?"

Martin whistled. "A mechanic. That's something for Aidan, all right. Sure, ask him over. Aidan didn't seem to mind him coming to the hospital, so he certainly won't mind you inviting him. So, just so I know when to get my hopes up... are you going to arrange a cinematically smoky poker room, or are we just going to sit around Aidan's bed with a little table installed?"

"It's more than just fixing cars, I think," Dean told him. "It's turning them into something else. It's art. I like that," he smiled. "Aidan has an eye for art. I've noticed it in the past few weeks," he told Martin, for no good reason that Martin could fathom. "We'll use the kitchen table. Aidan can sit up just fine. He's got this band he's supposed to be wearing around his ribs to help them heal. Some days he conveniently 'forgets' though. It's aggravating."

"Good. We'll have him strip off his shirt beforehand to verify," said Martin simply to see what Dean would say. He noticed his friend was referring to Aidan in a wholly good-natured context—more than Martin thought was reasonable after all that had happened.

Dean blushed, lowering his head to take a sip of his soda. "He'd just be embarrassed, Martin," he said quietly. "He's not ready for the world to see his scar. It's pretty big."

"Ah, but you've seen it."

Dean nodded sadly. "Yeah."

Martin patted him on the arm. "He'll be fine. As will you. Things will go back to normal as soon as his recovery is far enough for him to go out into the world and make a living again. He'll act, and you'll paint, and things will be almost the way they should be. I'll give him an honest chance while I'm over, I promise."

"Thank you," Dean reached for his hand and squeezed it. "It means a lot to me. I'm trying. He's trying, too. He's different now. You'll see."


	15. You Tamed Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean invites four friends over for a night of cards. What could possibly go wrong?

When the telephone on Luke's toolbox rang, he had to wipe the grease from his hands in order to catch it before the fourth ring.

"Is this Luke Evans?" asked a voice on the other end.

"This is Luke Evans," Luke replied with an amused voice, wiping his brow and looking over the details of his latest project while he spoke. "How can I help you?"

"My name's Dean O'Gorman," Dean said. "We met when your friend Aidan Turner was recovering from his heart transplant at Royal Brompton. You gave me your card?" Dean tried valiantly to remember Luke's face, but failed. He hadn't been at his best on the day they had met. But Luke had been there for Aidan when no one else but his parents had been. That had to mean something.

"Ah," smiled Luke, deciding the hubcaps could be a toned down a notch, "the blond. Hi. How is Aidan doing? I planned to come over some time, but you know how it is. Work got in the way."

"That's me," Dean smiled in relief. "The day we met was a difficult day for me, and I apologize if I wasn't myself. I don't know if you and Aidan have been in contact since then, but he's been staying with me. Well, I should say, I'm staying with him. It's complicated. At any rate, I'm having a get together—a gaming night, I suppose you could say—a week from Friday at our place. Would you like to come?"

"A gaming night!" Luke paused, surprised. "Neat, I'm being invited to a gaming night. What kind of gaming night? The computer gaming kind?" Normally, when Aidan suggested anything of the like, it consisted of one beer game after another to get them in the right mood for a long night out. Luke doubted that such was the setup of this gaming night, what with Aidan's health. Luke had sent Aidan some messages since seeing him in the hospital and was happy to know his friend was doing all right, but nothing more had come of it.

"Nothing so high tech, I'm afraid," Dean bit his lip. "Cards, board games, food and drinks. Bring whatever you like to drink. I'll feed you. And, of course, if you have a favorite board game, bring that along as well." He hurriedly gave Luke his address and a time to arrive. "Please, don't feel obligated. But I think Aidan would recover much faster surrounded by those who care about him."

Luke wanted to respond to that and add that his proper relationship with Aidan was long over. But they had sort of remained friends, at those odd moments when fate threw them into the same pub or room together. Luke just didn't do game nights, especially not board games. He supposed he could come to say hi to Aidan though, especially after Aidan's mom had gotten him to pay a visit at the hospital and he had found himself glad to see Aidan again. "...Sure, I'll drop by," he said. "His apartment?"

"His _house,_ actually," Dean said. "He was willed a house when," Dean's voice caught. "Well, m-my husband died and he willed the home to Aidan. It's his home, now. I'm glad you're coming, Luke. I look forward to seeing you under better circumstances."

"I'm sorry, I didn't know. My condolences. What is the address again?"

Luke jotted down the response with a greasy pen and wiped his hand on his jeans once more. It was a most peculiar phone call to be having. He nodded his thanks, and by the time the call ended Luke was left wondering why Aidan would want him to come to a game night—but thinking that it could certainly be fun.

Dean didn't realize his palms had been sweating until he swiped out of the phone call. Was inviting Luke a bad idea? He figured they'd find out soon enough. In the meantime, he would spend the afternoon researching new and interesting appetizers to serve his guests. He wanted to make sure to include Aidan's favorite foods.

He had one more call to make, however.

"Are you kidding me?" Adam groaned when Dean told him why he wanted him to come over. 

"Aw, c'mon, Ads," Dean cajoled. "It'll be fun. I promise. Martin's coming—Richard's friend from uni? You've told me you thought he was cute."

"And you are such a transparent matchmaking piece of shit. What time?"

Dean laughed, and it felt wonderful. "Officially, seven. But you can come anytime you like. Hey, listen, I'm not inviting you for Martin. I'm inviting you for me, okay?"

"Sure. You keep telling yourself that."

\- - - - -

Which was how Aidan ended up at the kitchen table at seven-thirty in the evening on a Friday night, carefully picking up his first hand of cards while his other, equally concerned about whether this was medically acceptable, crept towards the bowl of crisps.

The room was bustling with activity, and for once he was the quietest of them all. But he was happy. For that night, his world would no longer consist of solitude and a bed that was beginning to get more and more uncomfortable, the better he got. It was filled with laughter around him.

"I miss this," he admitted in a whisper mostly to himself.

"You want some more ginger ale?" Dean was at his elbow with the bottle. "You're going to need to be hydrated for the beat-down you're about to receive." And before Aidan could answer, Dean had refilled his plastic cup.

The sixth member of their company was Jimmy Nesbitt, whom Dean had met his first week in the city. Jimmy, a framing artist, was making a sketch for Dean of a project they were working on together.

"It's really going to depend on the size of the wall," Jimmy said, holding up the paper, "but here's my vision." Dean's plan was to have a number of Richard's favorite record albums framed permanently in a mural-sized display.

"So far I've picked out sixteen to use. But we can go bigger," Dean told him, giving the sketch his nod of approval. "It'll depend on where I move, I guess. I shouldn't make guesses based on the height of these ceilings, should I?"

"Have you seen anything interesting yet?" Aidan wondered, mostly because he hadn't noticed Dean looking. He arranged the cards in his hands to fit his strategy—or whatever seemed the most logical thing to do—and shielded his hand quickly from Dean as soon as the latter hovered over him with the ginger ale. Such a low tactic.

On the other side of the table, Luke was giving him looks that made Aidan think of pleasant memories. Luke was entertaining himself highly, leaning back in his chair like he owned everyone at the table. By the end of the night, he probably would. Luke was a player with tricks. Dirty bar tricks, that was to say, but tricks nonetheless.

Thank god none of the others noticed.

It was obvious why Aidan found Luke so attractive. Adam's eyes had trouble staying off the man. Luke, however, lounged in his chair, panther-like, and went with the flow. Aidan cheek's had a flush to them tonight. Whether it was from the food, or the heat of the fireplace—or a bit of alcohol he may or may not have sneaked in—Dean was glad for it. It was the old Aidan, a man he hadn't seen for almost a year.

Aidan's smile was genuine and contagious. It drew them all in, even Adam, who continued to roll his eyes at Dean when he thought Aidan wasn't looking. Dean felt untethered and unprotected without Richard there. He'd never been the type to organize a party. And yet here they were. And everyone seemed to be having a nice time.

"I haven't looked for a new place yet," he finally had to confess. "Not really. Well, maybe a little online. I'm not leaving until Aidan's back on his feet."

"The house is big enough," Aidan shrugged off any concerns Dean might have about feeling the need to leave with a jovial smile. He squinted at the pile in the center of the table, before nudging Martin on his right. "Your turn."

Oh, Aidan noticed Adam's moves, whether they entailed ogling Luke or giving a gesticulate commentary on the things he said. But Aidan thought it was all rather amusing.

"Yes, yes," Martin grumbled, "give me some time. There are several ways to royally screw you over, and I need to be sure I pick the optimal one. Let me think."

"Beer?" Aidan offered in the world's most obvious bribe.

"Don't mind if I do." Luke pushed his own empty bottle forward. He made sure Aidan's fingers touched his when the bottle passed hands, and gave him a cocky smile that said, _game on_. Aidan wasn't sure what game Luke was implying, but he liked the challenge.

"Ace of hearts. Your turn."

It felt good to have a house full of people over, Dean decided. Only one thing would have made the evening better.

 _You were so wild when we met,_ he could hear Richard's voice in his head, so strongly it was as if he were being held in his arms. _Where did my wild man go?_

"You tamed me," Dean whispered, then looked up quickly to see if any of the others had noticed. But the game was so raucous that no one looked his way. Cards were tossed, groaned and jeered over appropriately. Aidan and Luke continued to flirt, and it grew less and less inconspicuous as the night wore on. 

Around ten o’clock, Dean got up to make coffee and cut some baklava for dessert. Once the coffee was brewing, he found himself in front of the fire in the deserted living room. His body thrummed with a need for attention. 

"I miss you so much," he whispered into crackling fireplace.

"Dean!" Adam queried loudly from the other room. "Get back here, we're starting another round!"

Adam was well on his way to becoming gravely tipsy, whereas Martin only had the rosy glow that insinuated influence of alcohol. Jimmy shared Adam's disposition. Luke—though he might be good at hiding it—had consumed several glasses of the stronger stuff and was still the same man as he was at the beginning of the evening.

Out of the lot, Aidan was the only one without alcohol, yet no-one could tell by looking at him. He was joyful, possibly getting a bit tired from so much activity as opposed to his regular sleeping hours, but he did not feel the need to say much.

Dean could hear them loud and clear as they discussed their profits and their expectations. Adam declared he was going to bleed the bank dry.

"There isn't a bank," Jimmy supplied, onto which Adam replied,

"The people! The people are the bank, of course."

"Can't bleed me dry," interjected Aidan. "I got resistant to being bled dry in the hospital."

"Did you just—?"

It was the first time Aidan actually spoke so lightly about his condition and his recovery, and all eyes were on him, baffled by his breaking of the one subject none of them had dared mention. He flushed in front if the audience. "What, I'd rather laugh about it than cry. And besides, I've got more money than you, Adam, so who's bleeding who dry?"

"There's the Aidan I know," Luke broke his radio silence. "It's good to have you back."

_Good to have you back. _Dean ruminated. Those were encouraging words—the words of man who had perhaps had his desire for Aidan rekindled tonight. Dean wasn't jealous, he reasoned, getting up from the ottoman in front of the fire—just protective. Aidan was in no condition to— But he couldn't let himself think about that. He didn't want to have another dream.__

__"Who's ready for dessert?" he smiled around at the five of them, entering the room with a tray full of baklava and hot coffee._ _

__"My god, is that your baklava?" Adam's eyes were as wide as when he'd met Luke. "That stuff is sinful. Sinful, I tell you."_ _

__"I'll take two then," Luke grinned toothily. "I am all about sin."_ _

__"I'm just taking two because _baklava_." But Aidan's eyes posed a mirthful challenge to Luke, although he broke it off for long enough to give Dean a grateful smile. "Thanks. When did your make these? Was I asleep? I didn't notice you making them."_ _

__"Cooking class," Adam said with no minor amount of pride. "Didn't know they were for tonight though. If I did, I would have told him to make more."_ _

__"I did make more," Dean told them all. "Here at home, this morning. There's another pan in the kitchen. You can have as much as you like. But be careful, Aidan," Dean lay a concerned hand on his arm. "It's really rich."_ _

__Adam raised his eyebrows questioningly at Martin, who shrugged back at him, shaking his head. Dean's concern for Aidan wasn't lost on Luke either. His eyes fell to the hand on Aidan's arm and Dean pulled it away self-consciously._ _

__"Mmmhm, this is better than sex!" Jimmy proclaimed, forking in a second mouthful._ _

__"You are having the wrong kind of sex," Luke assured him._ _

__"Dessert has replaced sex for me," Dean said, matter-of-factly. "I had a minor orgy in the kitchen yesterday during Aidan's nap."_ _

__"It's not an orgy if you're the sole participant," Adam pointed out, just as Aidan groaned,_ _

__"Thanks for the visual, mate."_ _

__His fatigue was beginning to get his body acting up. The area around Aidan's chest felt physically tired, whereas his hands were occasionally shaky. "Pass me another," he asked Luke specifically—asking Dean now would make him think of terrible things indeed, "before I'm retiring for the night. This patient has been up too long."_ _

__"I kept my clothing on," Dean smiled, "if that makes you all feel any better." His eyes watched Aidan carefully for signs of distress. The extra attention wasn't missed by any of his tablemates, except for perhaps Jimmy._ _

__"You're sleeping here tonight, right, Jimbo?" Adam asked the older man._ _

__"Certainly, even if it's the couch. Wouldn't miss breakfast from this guy."_ _

__Luke must have had other plans, for he raised an eyebrow. "Any space left? I'm sure," he looked at Aidan, "we could come up with something?"_ _

__Aidan chuckled. "I'm sure we could. If everyone else is staying, you should too. But just because I'm checking out for the night doesn't mean you guys should stop playing." He snatched a last piece of baklava, took a bite and licked his fingers._ _

__"It's obvious you and your dessert need some private time," Jimmy patted Aidan on the shoulder, eliciting a wince of pain. "Oh, sorry, my boy. I forgot. Are you all right?"_ _

__Aidan nodded quickly. He hadn't intended much innuendo other than a cloaked suggestion to Luke, just for fun really, and Jimmy's comment made him painfully aware of everyone's eyes on him. Aware enough to stop the flirtation with Luke._ _

__"Anyway," he coughed, getting up, "that's my cue. I'll see you all in the morning? Night."_ _

__No one was a bit surprised when Luke got up to follow him. A genuine surprise came when Dean got up to follow after Luke._ _

__"Hey," he called quietly after him, out of earshot of Aidan. When he caught up to Luke he said, "Nothing strenuous, okay? He's still healing."_ _

__Luke raised a brow. It wasn't Dean who got to follow Aidan into his room, and as such it wasn't much of his business. But it was obvious that Dean cared, be that in a caretaking way, or something else. "I'll go as far as he wants me to go. Always have. But yes, I'm aware of his injuries, if that's what you're really asking. Funny. From what I heard of you, I didn't think you'd mind."_ _

__"I mind if you hurt him."_ _

__Dean didn't say these words because it was what Richard would have wanted him to do. He was saying them because protecting Aidan was what _he_ wanted to do._ _

__"And it's not _injuries_ he's recovering from," Dean reminded Luke. "He's had his chest ripped open, his heart torn out, and a new one put in. He needs you, Luke. He needs to feel whole again. To be with someone who cares for him. But if you hurt him..."_ _

__Luke's jaw tensed. "So that's why you invited me here. You think he needs a date to feel valuable again. You don't really know anything about us, do you?" He didn't feel like explaining himself. "Goodnight, Dean. Thanks for the hospitality. I'll find my way myself," he said._ _

__Aidan didn't need Luke. Aidan needed the attention, if anything at all, but Luke had seen the fatigue. He followed without expectations._ _

__"God _dammit!_ " Dean swore and gave the nearest wall a punch, which he instantly regretted when pain lanced through his knuckles and up into his wrist. _That wasn't what I meant at all!_ he groaned. _ _

__What had he meant, then?_ _

__"I just want him to be all right," he explained to the empty hallway._ _

__Silence answered him.__

 _ _\- - - - -__

 _ _That night, Dean dreamed of Richard for the first time since his death. He came upon his husband sitting by the fire in the living room on the ottoman. At first, Dean thought he must be mistaken, but as he came around in front of him, there sat Richard, wearing the blue cardigan and beige slacks in which he had been buried._ _

__"Rich!" Dean exclaimed, kneeling down in front of his husband, taking his hands in his own, "I keep screwing up!"_ _

__"No, love," Richard leaned over and kissed his forehead. "You're doing just fine. Just fine."_ _

__"I miss you so much," Dean reached up a hand to caress Richard's cheek. It was cold—as cold as it had been that day in the morgue._ _

__"You shouldn't touch me," Richard told him simply. "I’m dead."_ _

__Dean awoke with a gasp, heart pounding so hard he thought it might leap out of his chest. He did not sleep again that night._ _

__At 7 a.m., Dean finally got out of bed and went downstairs to clean up. The rest of the party-goers were still sound asleep. He'd made a breakfast casserole the afternoon before and stuck it in the oven to warm, then poured himself a generous mug of coffee in Richard's Shakespeare mug._ _

__He couldn't stop thinking about his dream. It left him chilled._ _

__From somewhere in the house sounded the whispers of laughter and hushed speaking. It had to come from Aidan's room, as all of the others were asleep. All, except—_ _

__"You look like you've seen a ghost," Martin informed him from his right, clutching the carton of milk as he stood in the halo of an open fridge. "You okay?"_ _

__"Oh... _fuck_ ," Dean breathed, clutching his chest. "Martin. I didn't hear you come in. Yeah... yeah. I'm all right. Bad dream. I couldn't get back to sleep." He jerked his head in the direction of the sound. "Seems like Aidan's in better spirits, eh?"_ _

__"Aidan's different," Martin nodded, holding the carton up as to inquire if Dean wanted some as well. "He had a good time yesterday. You're right, he was a bit more measured. It was pleasant." His eyes went to Adam asleep on the couch, Jimmy comfortable on a mattress on the floor. "You've changed too, Dean. I think we all saw it. Without jumping to conclusions, it was almost as if you wanted what Luke was having."_ _

__Dean gave great thought to what he told Martin. "You're right," he told him. "I'm lonely. I miss the little touches, the flirting. And I miss sex. God, I miss it so much. But it's Richard that I'm longing for. I _ache_ for him, and the empty space that's always around me just magnifies it. Some days, it's more than I can bear." He pushed his coffee cup away. "I just... I want to hold him."_ _

__Martin could not help Dean with that. "Give it time. Things will get better," he offered, though they were words that were hard to believe, even for Martin. "He would have liked yesterday. You making dessert, getting everyone together for a fun night... he would have liked you smiling like that. If he were still with us, he'd be looking at you right now with a look saying, 'I told you they'd have a great time, you worried too much', carrying exactly that mug with a hot cup of coffee in his hands."_ _

__Martin's words brought tears to Dean's eyes, yet he smiled through them. "I always hated this bloody mug," he sniffled, holding the Shakespeare caricature aloft. " _To tea or not to tea, _" he parroted back what it read by heart. "Richard would always say that when he opened the cupboard in the morning, as if he were making the decision then and there. Hell, maybe he was." Dean got up and went to the coffee pot, adding more of the rich brown liquid to warm the contents. "Last night was great. It really was. Until I fucked it up by lecturing Luke."___ _

____"You—" Martin let out a laugh—and quickly cut back on his volume when Adam stirred. "You lectured Luke? Wait, was that when you went after them when they obviously had plans? Oh Dean, what did you say?"_ _ _ _

____"I honestly didn't think it was so bad," Dean appeared very contrite, embarrassed. "I just asked him to be gentle with Aidan—not to hurt him. And I reminded him what Aidan had been through. He didn't like that," Dean frowned. "I feel pretty stupid now. Of course he knows. He came to the hospital to see Aidan."_ _ _ _

____His friend stared at him open-mouthed. Amusement wrinkled his eyes then, and he had to hold back so as not to wake anyone up for real. "Do you have any idea how much you sound like a jealous ex when you say stuff like that? Not to hurt him, when Aidan's about to have god-knows-what-but-it-sure-as-hell-ain't-decent with him? Oh Dean, please don't say anything when they come out of that room. Aidan's anything but a virgin. I'm sure he can take care of himself."_ _ _ _

____"Oh really?" Dean's eyebrows shot up. "If that's the case, then why did his heart defect go untreated for so—" but Dean halted in mid-sentence when he heard the door to Aidan's bedroom open._ _ _ _

____Luke walked into the living room first. He nodded to Dean and Martin when he saw them, before walking over and peering at the kitchen cabinets in search of a glass. "Morning," he said casually. "Have you got any aspirins, by any chance?"_ _ _ _

____They both expected Aidan to follow soon after. But Aidan remained in the bedroom, and Luke turned out to be out of the room only to fetch them both a drink and to arrange aspirin. He stretched, exposing skin, but was otherwise considerate of spectators and added, "Sorry about that."_ _ _ _

____"They're in the medicine cabinet in the loo across from Aidan's room," Dean told him. There's bottled water in the fridge. Help yourself," he offered, in a tone he hoped didn't offend._ _ _ _

____If Luke had been offended, he showed no signs of it. "Thanks. Your baklava yesterday, by the way," he gave Dean the thumbs up, "excellent. Pass me the recipe some time, I've got a friend who would love to try your version, I'm sure."_ _ _ _

____And off he was, leaving both to wonder when Luke had turned into a man who cared about taste._ _ _ _

____Dean's eyes followed Luke out of the room. He was silent for a bit, then said to Martin, "He's good for Aidan, I think."_ _ _ _

____"If that's the case, why did they break up?" came Adam's voice from the sofa. "And why the bloody hell did you let me drink so much last night, O'Gorman?"_ _ _ _

____"It's easier to stop a speeding train than to try to separate you from a vodka martini," Dean grinned. "Aspirin's in the—"_ _ _ _

____"I know, I know," Adam groaned._ _ _ _

____"Should we wake up James?" Martin thought out loud. "It's so early. Why is everyone up so early? I think I'm going to burn two more hours in bed, if that's all right. Unless you've got breakfast planned. Have you?"_ _ _ _

____"He had better!" Adam called from the bathroom._ _ _ _

____"Who had better what?" Aidan chimed in._ _ _ _

____Martin hung his shoulders. "Yes, definitely going to bed."_ _ _ _

____"It's in the oven," Dean told them, "and I was just about to whip up some popovers. It's Aidan's mom's recipe. But it'll taste just as good warmed up, Martin. Make yourself at home, seriously. We can do a repeat tonight and break out the board games."_ _ _ _

____"Wish I could," Adam sighed, "I've got a gig planned."_ _ _ _

____"I've got plans too, I'm afraid. Next week? Or, you know, it'll be just you and Aid." Martin wriggled a brow. He swiftly retreated from the room to avoid the answer._ _ _ _

____"Yeah," Adam chimed in, "could you have possibly been more obvious—" but halted when Dean gave him a scathing look._ _ _ _

____"I'm cooking," Dean said primly. "Coffee's on the stove," and he turned to the counter where he began rummaging around the flour and sugar tins._ _ _ _

____Knowing he had pushed it too far, Adam got up, quickly refreshed himself, and helped Dean prepare breakfast._ _ _ _

____He wasn't sure why it was so much fun to suggest things about Aidan to Dean. Sure enough, Dean talked about Aidan a great deal more these days, but after all, they shared a house now._ _ _ _

____They all missed Richard. He was an empty space in their midst where there had been one of the kindest men Adam had known. Aidan wasn't going to fill that spot. Nobody was. In time, Dean would find someone else and that man would find his own spot among them, but Richard's would remain Richard's. Nobody could replace him._ _ _ _

____Although Richard would probably say that if anyone was worthy, it would be Aidan._ _ _ _

____"Do you think," Adam wondered, "that Aidan never had a decent relationship because of Richard? He spent a lot of time with Richard. What if he compares everyone he meets with Richard?"_ _ _ _

____"Well, why wouldn't he?" Dean carefully measured flour into a silver mixing bowl. "I do. I always will. He was beautiful, inside and out. There's no one in the world like Richard."_ _ _ _

____"I'll drink to that!" Jimmy seconded, entering the kitchen. "Well, maybe some coffee," he groaned._ _ _ _

____"We'll have breakfast soon," Dean promised him. "Carbs and grease will soak up all our sins."_ _ _ _

____The casserole turned out to be astounding._ _ _ _

____"That cooking class of yours has really paid off," Jimmy told Dean and Adam._ _ _ _

____"He's much better at it than I am," Adam admitted. "I'm just there to meet men."_ _ _ _

____"How's that working out for you?" Jimmy raised his eyebrow._ _ _ _

____"All straight. Except Ramon, but he's fifty and about as appealing as sticky dough. But hey, new applicants are still showing up! One of them could be it, you know." Adam grinned. "The rest of the time, I'm there to leech off Dean's cooking and support him to get better. Oh, morning!" he said to Aidan, who had come out of his room and was smiling back sleepily._ _ _ _

____"Carbs and grease?" Luke asked._ _ _ _

____"Mm, yes please. And have you got any of that baklava left?" Not one to be bothered by finding particular things nauseating in the morning, Aidan always ate whatever he felt like eating. He looked better, holding himself up in a way that suggested he was wearing the band around his chest._ _ _ _

____Dean dished up some casserole and baklava for each of them, with one of Angela Turner's popovers on the side. "What can I get you guys to drink? Coffee? Tea?"_ _ _ _

____" _Me?_ " Adam quipped under his breath, and Dean whacked him with the dishtowel that was over his shoulder. Adam yelped. "Thank you, sir, may I have another?"_ _ _ _

____"Ah, so that's your game?" Jimmy grinned. "You like a little pain."_ _ _ _

____"Mmmmmaybe," Adam elbowed him._ _ _ _

____"Nothing wrong with that," Luke quipped, feeling better now that his headache was reduced to a quiet throb._ _ _ _

____Jimmy laughed. "Nothing wrong indeed."_ _ _ _

____They ate with the same dynamics of the night before. They made comments, stole food from each other's plates, and were generally amicable. Beside the fact that Richard wasn't there, they acted like he was. He had always been the glue tying Aidan to Dean's friends, and Aidan was grateful that he felt a part of that again._ _ _ _

____"Mom will be here in three," he said. "Can we pick her up from the airport? She offered to take me to my checkup at four."_ _ _ _

____Dean nodded. "Yes, of course. I'll take you." He was eager to see what the doctor was going to say about Aidan's improvements. He had felt his own improvements in the past eighteen hours, spending time among friends._ _ _ _

____It was the first time since Richard's death that he'd felt that things might, in fact, be okay._ _ _ _


	16. Cell Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aidan learns the truth about where his donor heart came from, and gets asked out on a date by a very unlikely person.

Aidan came home from his appointment with Dr. Pace carrying two new types of pills, and he slept like a log that night—for which he felt bad in the morning, because it took away from time spent with his mother. At ten, he lamented that someone should have woken him at eight. He had fallen asleep at nine, the previous night, and it was such a waste of valuable time.

Angela said nothing. She felt that Aidan needed more rest than he had been allowing himself. And she certainly was more convinced of that after hearing the things Aidan mentioned to the doctor. They were things, she noticed, that Dean had brushed away easily when Dean inquired about how it had gone. Aidan didn't mention that the doctor had wanted him to come back for more tests, nor that he was now required to keep up a diary about things out of the ordinary or things that concerned him. They must still be on the wrong foot.

Except that didn't match the consideration for each other that she noticed on Sunday morning, when Aidan was served his favorite breakfast—pancakes—and lit up like a child at Christmas. He was being spoiled. Angela saw it, but Dean did not.

"Any dreams?" she asked her son casually, so as to change the topic from apologies to one more positive.

"Oh, none. If I did, I can't remember. It's good to finally sleep a whole night," said Aidan around a rolled up pancake. "Do you want to go do something today?"

"Of course I do." Angela cut her pancakes into small bite-sized pieces. "Although with all these carbs in my system, I might need a long nap after lunch. Dean, what do you suggest we do?"

"Well," Dean pondered for a moment. "Have either of you been to the London Zoo? It's a great place to go. There is some walking, but no hills. When spring rolls around, I always think about going there. I think you two would like it."

Aidan smiled awkwardly. "Yes, if someone feels like pushing a wheelchair all day. I'm exhausted after yesterday and the day before that. I was thinking something small, like a game or going for a movie. Maybe in a few months?"

Dean knew Aidan hated taking the wheelchair in public, so he didn't push the zoo idea. "If you don't mind the wheelchair, I'm sure your mum would love a trip to Harrods. Ladurée serves a fantastic tea time meal. The macaroons are out of this world. You two should go; I'll treat."

"Harrods? Harrods is a madhouse. It's Sunday, Dean. Unless you want to use me as an excuse to skip lines, claim more space in the elevators and be a general pest to other customers?" He had a twinkle in his eyes, a tease aimed at unsettling Dean.

Then he remembered how much Richard had loved the Egyptian escalators, and his smile fell.

"Not Harrods. Hyde Park is fine, or some bookshop around Leicester Square or Korean, but not Harrods."

"Well," Dean seemed distracted, "go wherever you wish. You can borrow my car, if you want. I'm going to be working on Osiris today. And I need to take an inventory of what we need in the garden. It's a mess."

"Oh, the garden!"

Aidan had never had a garden before. He didn't want to declare he had a garden now, because he still thought of the house as being Dean and Richard's, but the fact remained that he had forgotten entirely about the garden.

His mother was stuck on Osiris and on why Dean didn't want Aidan to be around for that. Of course, Aidan hadn't told her he was no longer starring in the painting.

"Richard loved that garden," Aidan smiled with sadness in his eyes. "Keep his spirit in it."

"I don't really do the gardening," Dean was quick to point out. "We have a landscaper, Ken, who comes by every few weeks to tend it. Richard and I just picked out the plants and flowers. I was going to go out back and clean the dead leaves out of the fountain today and make sure it's still sealed and ready to turn on."

It was plain to see that the fountain had some significance to Dean and his relationship with Richard. But Dean didn't elaborate. "I was also thinking of making some mosaic stones for the pathway. Maybe you could help me with that project, Aidan. We can make them in the kitchen."

Aidan accepted with a smile. He was eager to do something useful, other than his coursework. "That'd be nice." He stole another pancake off the plate, rolling it up. Aidan had worked up quite the appetite lately. He had to tell himself that as soon as he could, he'd try to exercise again.

His mother and Dean would probably not like it.

\- - - - -

A month passed. Aidan's recovery was surprisingly stable, with only a few moments left in which he felt uncomfortably out of breath and had to see a doctor—who then suggested that perhaps it was time he stopped combining the sleeping pills with his regular pill diet. Aidan would try for a night, but invariably the dreams of memories between Richard and Dean returned.

He kept a journal of the things that were out of the ordinary. More often than not however, Aidan found himself also writing about the things that were nice, and he could write for pages on end, even when there wasn't much to say. In the end the journal had become more of a diary that he was loath to offer up to a doctor for study, and so he had gotten himself a second notebook in which he copied only the odd things—muted down to acceptable details—and kept the original notebook the way it was.

When Dr. Pace was in town again, a week later, Aidan was asked for another checkup with him. He was asked to take with him his notebook, and it was mentioned that Dr. Pace liked to talk to him alone.

And so Dean sat waiting outside while Aidan opened his family-friendly notebook and handed it over to Dr. Pace. "I haven't had many dreams since the pills," he said. "I hoped that that would be it, but it's not. It's not really that I see him everywhere. It's more that I go places and I know he's been there before, like I'm having a deja-vu. Sometimes I know what happened there, but not because someone told me. I think it still freaks Dean out when I talk about it, so I stopped mentioning it."

Dr. Pace drew in a slow, deep breath and sat down on a stool opposite the table on which Aidan sat.

"What your describing is not atypical, Aidan," he began. "There's a theory in the medical community called _cell memory_. It's when the memories and traits of the person who donated an organ transfer to the recipient. It's said that memories, dreams and personality attributes are stored in a neuronal level and can implant on a recipient after a transplant. It's been especially noted with those receiving hearts. Of course, it's not scientifically documented. Not really. But it's been written about plenty by people just like you—people who have experienced it."

Aidan frowned. It took him a moment to understand why that didn't sit well, somehow.

His dreams were about Richard.

"You're saying..." 

But he was terribly afraid to finish that sentence.

Lee leaned over with his elbows resting on his knees and ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. "This is something that I should not be telling you, Aidan. I could get fired for this. There are channels that information like this needs to go through."

Aidan's chest felt hollow, his heart suddenly alien. It did not belong there. "Of course," he whispered. "The day he died, I got a new heart. He was a donor. It's not every day a heart becomes available. The coincidences..."

Had he really thought about it, Aidan might have figured it out much sooner. But Aidan hadn't wanted to know, and he certainly hadn't linked his dreams to his heart. Cell memory, Dr. Pace called it. Was such a thing even possible?

Did it matter, when he had Richard's heart?

"What am I supposed to do now?" Aidan asked helplessly.

"You do exactly what Richard would have wanted you to do," Lee smiled, relieved. "You _live_." 

The doctor reached into his briefcase and pulled out a small tablet. He took a moment to jot down some information. He ripped off the top sheet and handed it to Aidan. "These are three of the authors who come to mind regarding cell memory. If you were to search the term online, I'm sure you'll find more information and testimonials than you can shake a stick at."

Lee sat on the edge of his desk, closer to Aidan and looked him in the eye. "Does this news upset you, Aidan?"

Hesitant about answering, Aidan finally nodded. He wasn't sure why. Richard's death had not been in vain, and Aidan would look after his heart the best way he could. "It feels like he died for my sake," he admitted. "That if I hadn't been there, he wouldn't have died. Maybe the ambulance paramedics would have tried harder to save him. I don't—", tears sprang in his eyes, "—I don't deserve his heart. If I could give it back to him and have him live, I'd do it."

Lee's eyes grew gentler. "He would have died from his injuries anyway. He nearly died during the surgery. The heart might not have been viable if we'd waited only a few minutes longer. It was," he paused, "well, it was as if he were willing himself to live long enough for the procedure to be successful. It was painful not be able to tell you or Dean what happened. But I wasn't sure either of you were ready to hear it. Dean may never be. Richard didn't die in vain," Lee told him. "It was terrible, terrible bad luck for him, and a miracle for you—plain and simple."

But Aidan felt like a thief nonetheless. And he didn't want to consider what Dean might think of him now. Just when they were getting used to not making each other's lives miserable. "I will have to let him know eventually. Richard was his partner. Not," he smiled faintly at the memory of the charade Richard and he had played, "me, clearly."

He clutched the piece of paper, before finally folding it and tucking it away in his coat pocket. "Will you get into trouble if I tell him?"

"No," Lee said softly. "I mean, I don't think so. I've done nothing illegal. I saved your life. I carried out what turned out to be a very successful heart transplant. I know you have some pain and discomfort still, but a few months from now you're going to feel incredible, Aidan. And it's not me you have to thank for this second chance. It's Richard Armitage." Lee bit his lip nervously. "As far as telling Dean," he sighed, "I don't know. Do you think it's something he's ready to hear?"

"No. Maybe. I don't know; he could be glad that Richard lives on, but he could also be angry with me. So I suppose it'll be okay for him, and bad for me." Aidan's shoulders sagged. "It's complicated."

There was something special about being the keeper of Richard's heart, Aidan supposed, although he had never planned for it to be this way. He snorted. Life was irony, strung together in a tangle that sometimes surprised him when it unraveled. Already he felt like he was carrying something precious inside. "I'll tell him. He deserves to know. Thanks for the articles. Should I keep up the journal, you think? And the sleeping pills?"

"You have to do—or not do—whatever helps your recovery best, Aidan," Lee told him. "I can't tell you what that is. Is living with Dean... is that going all right for you? Are you getting along?"

His answer was useless to Aidan, who—lost as he was—needed absolutes to guide him through this. "It's all right. We've always been fire and ice, but Richard used to bridge the gap. I inherited a house, can you imagine that? It still feels like it's Dean's house, which is why he's still living in it. That probably wasn't easy for him." It was a pity Dr. Pace was American. He seemed to care greatly, more than just professionally so. If he lived closer by, Aidan might have taken a chance on him. "Are the memories going to keep coming? Or will they eventually go, when my memory's... saturated, or something? Some of them are about Dean too, and I'd rather not, you know..."

"Cells multiply," Lee told him. "That's the plain and honest truth. Those cells are coursing through your body. They'll always be in there. Do some reading. I think you'll get a different answer from everyone who's experienced it. My strongest bit of advice is to make your own memories, you know? Get out there and _find_ someone who makes your heart race," he smiled fondly. "I haven't ever quite made time in my life for someone special. It's my one regret, and that's no lie."

Lee realized the mood was getting a little grim, so he slapped his hands on his knees briskly. "At any rate, I'll be back in London in late May. I hope to see you again. But at your rate of recovery, there's no reason why our visits can't start dwindling off. You still have my business card. Email me if something comes up. We can always Skype," he smiled warmly. "If you do tell Dean the truth, and he has questions, I want him to feel free to talk to me. I'll try to help him in any way I can."

"How often are you in London anyway?" Aidan attempted, encouraged by Skype and regrets and a stupidly adorable smile. "I'll add you."

"I come over when they ask for me," Lee told him. "Sometimes I'm here so often I've considered the move. But I have to be honest, the food here is dreadful. Except at the really pricey restaurants. What passes for bar food here is just... well, I have yet to enjoy a decent reasonably priced meal. I wish someone would prove me wrong on that. You don't happen to be a cook, do you?"

Aidan laughed at the dumb luck that Dean was quite good at cooking, and he himself was not. "Basic food," he tried to turn his lack of culinary imagination into something positive. The distraction was nonetheless welcome—as was the idea of preparing Dr. Pace breakfast. "But you are in London. It can be as expensive or cheap as you want your food to be. I know a few nice places down at West End, if you've got the time."

"I'd welcome the distraction from work," Lee nodded. "Maybe a meal out would do the trick. Show me something new. When?"

"Tomorrow? 7 p.m.?"

Aidan didn't think he could believe his luck. Make new memories, Dr. Pace had said. Aidan had not expected the chance to be presented so soon. Richard would have been proud of him. Aidan had mentioned the doctor several times after moving into the house, and Richard had told him exactly as many times to go for it. But Aidan never had. A man from across the ocean and a man whose time was running out; they hadn't been the best match.

"I get to call you by your first name then though, okay?"

"I've been asking you to call me Lee since the day we met," the doctor chuckled, blushing ever so slightly. "But I could see how the possibility of dying might distract you from such pleasantries. I don't drive. I mean, not here. The driving on the wrong side of the road thing? It's scary," he chuckled, on safer ground. "I could take a taxi to your place and we could go from there? I just need the address." His eyes twinkled.

By the time Aidan made it outside the office and back to Dean, he was grinning from ear to ear.

"No more sleeping pills," he said. "I'll tell you when we get home. I think I might have just landed myself a date."

"Wow... really?" Dean seemed genuinely surprised. "With who?"

"I shouldn't say that out loud while we're in the hospital, but I just talked to him." Aidan was glowing like he hadn't in months. There was serious news to tell Dean, sure, but Aidan was distracted. Dr. Pace— _Lee_ —wanted to see him over dinner. His mother was going to love that, if it actually turned into something. Lee lived in the States. That didn't mean this couldn't work.

"Oh." Realization dawned in Dean's face. "The doctor. He's... well, he's really handsome. Beautiful eyes—artistic hands. And so tall! But Aidan, he's American, right? As in, _lives_ in America?"

"Well, yes he does. But he's got Skype, and he's in London all the time. He's actually considering moving, except he says the quality of the food holds him back. Which is nonsense, of course, so I'm going to show him some nice places to eat. He's really, really nice. We'll just see how it goes. I'm not one hundred percent sure he swings that way, but I'm ninety percent there."

Dean couldn't deny that Aidan looked not only happy, but healthier for his news. "I'm glad, Aidan. I have to admit, I was surprised when Luke stopped coming 'round. I liked him. But Dr. Pace is very handsome, no doubt about that. And he certainly has a great career. He saved your life. How can you not fall in love with him?"

Aidan did not appear happy to hear those words. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves," he said quickly. "He's handsome and he's kind. I'm not taking him to a restaurant because he saved my life, and I certainly don't intend on falling in love with him before I figure out whether there's a chance that he might return it. Like what did not happen with Luke." And a number of others. Aidan was better off with Dean not knowing that. "He wasn't really coming 'round, by the way. He just came over a few times."

As soon as he said that, his countenance cleared up. New chances, that's what Lee had said. The past was the past. Who was to say? Maybe this time, things would turn out for the better. It would at least distract him from the dreams he was again about to have of Richard and Dean in intimate moments.

Ah, right. He had something to tell Dean. 

"Are we going home?"

 _Home._ It was the first time Aidan had referred to Dean's house as home. He'd better get used to the idea. They'd both better.

"Yeah," Dean told him, "unless you'd like to stop somewhere on the way." He pulled his keys from his pocket. "Did Dr. Pace give you a glowing report? You were certainly glowing when you left his office."

"Date," Aidan reminded him with a skip in his step. The rest of the report wasn't that happy. Somehow though, Aidan felt that taking this chance with Lee would have made Richard proud, and that made him feel better about having his heart. He planned on doing a lot of things that'd make Richard proud. "Can we stop by the supermarket? I'm craving chicken."

"Sure," Dean agreed amiably. "I need more coffee and tea. What do you want to eat with the chicken, and how are we going to prepare it?"

"Green curry? I've never made it before, but that's what the Internet is for." Richard had always loved green curry.

Aidan was practically floating. He hadn't felt like this for a long time. Not having noticed the absence of butterflies in his stomach, Aidan understood now how much he had missed it. It wasn't just Lee, it was everything. The day was a beautiful spring day. He was recovering from almost having lost his life, and the world suddenly seemed to consist of boundless opportunities. Aidan smiled at Dean while they made it to the car. "If you're not occupied, I can sit for Ra when we get home."

"I've got to put the finishing touches on Osiris before we can start Ra," Dean told him, starting the engine of his car. "My agent's given me a lot of leeway since Richard died, but I made promises to people. I need to step up and start working again. Thing is... about my art ..." he groaned. "Well, it's stupid," he sighed, pulling out into traffic.

"But you're an artist," chuckled Aidan. "It's what you do, right? Even if customers are dicks."

"Cate—that's my agent—she's been really patient with me," Dean set the record straight, "and so have the gallery and museum owners. It's _me._ I just... I'm not getting any enjoyment out of it. I'm painting, but it's not giving the pleasure it used to. I think about quitting a lot." Dean chanced a glance in Aidan's direction. "Does that make me sound like a failure?"

"No." But it rather concerned the man in the passenger seat. He leaned against the window in a way that relieved stress from his chest. It didn't hurt as much as it used to. He was off all painkillers for two weeks now. "It sounds like you haven't been yourself. I'm having trouble doing my coursework when my head's not in it. Is it because Richard was always proud of you for whatever you finished? Because I like your work, and I'd hate to see you leave it. Maybe you shouldn't try too hard. It'll come when it'll come. And if it's really in your blood, then it'll come."

"No, it's not that," Dean frowned to himself introspectively. "At least, I don't think so. I was an artist before I met Richard. I just...," he sighed. "I'm not getting joy from it. But—and this is going to sound really crazy—I _have_ really been loving cooking. In class, and at home. With that in mind," his toned brightened, "I happen to have an amazing recipe for green curry committed to memory. It was one of Richard's favorite meals, so I made it a lot." The prospect of being able to spend time in the kitchen had Dean looking happier than he had all day.

It made Aidan happier, too. "Then we'll make green curry. I can help by cutting the chicken, and I'm amazing at rice." When Dean looked at him—probably because Aidan was decent with the basics but had no culinary imagination, which always had other people consider him a bad cook—Aidan shrugged. "Rice is cheap. I like cheap food. Have you got a rice cooker, or are we making it the old-fashioned way?"

Their banter about food made Aidan quite forget about the time. They were still discussing what to do and what not when they were browsing the isles for the ingredients.

He would have to tell eventually, he knew. Dean wasn't going to like it. So maybe Aidan could be selfish and wait until after dinner to sit Dean down. At least it would not ruin their easy conversation now.

As it turned out, the rice that went best with green curry chicken was basmati rice. Dean insisted on soaking the rice twenty minutes before cooking it with fried onions, cardamom, clove and cinnamon. The curry had never come out so well, or tasted so good. 

While eating it, Dean's head was flooded with painful memories of Richard that kept floating to the surface, threatening to make him cry. To his credit, he did not. He sat and listened to Aidan talk about that long-ago production of 'Hamlet' where he and Richard had met.

But Aidan was not a fool, and eventually he paused to see if Dean would notice. "I get the feeling you're not having the same curry as I am," he said, "because you wouldn't look so glum if you did. This is amazing stuff. We have to make it again soon."

"Oh, it's good," Dean agreed with him. "I think it might be the best I've ever made. I blame the cooking classes for that. You know how a snippet of a song, or a smell, can just take you to another time and place? The taste of this particular dish does that to me. I think of eating it with Richard on the back patio. He would put a little CD player in the kitchen window and play old music while we ate. It really makes me miss him," he confessed.

"So tell me," Dean tried vainly to change the subject, "about this _date_ of yours with Dr. Pace. What plans do you have for him?"

"Oh." His fork left between his lips, Aidan's eyes grew absent. He was supposed to tell Dean soon. He was sure he could stretch it another half an hour or so, but to fall asleep and return to the land of his dreams without telling Dean was unfair. "Well, dinner, of course. I don't know how that'll go, but I think he's a really decent guy. Who knows? Maybe we'll just take it slow. Only if it turns out there's a spark, of course, but I've got a good feeling about him. So just dinner first, and then we'll see whether it was actually a date or not." He pushed his phone forward. "If you want, we can listen to Billie Holiday. Remembering him is better than trying to forget him."

Dean looked longingly at the old CD player on the kitchen counter near the sink. He did turn it on sometimes when he cooked or cleaned the kitchen. But never Richard's music. Never that.

He turned to Aidan. "Not yet. It hurts too much." He got up and took his plate to the sink. Then, he turned on the player to the CD that was inside—The Spice Girls. "Rich would not approve of this. I've had it since high school," he admitted.

Not believing what he was hearing, Aidan burst into laughing. "Sure he would! Rich approved of everything you did, even if it's... if it's... oh god, Dean, you _know_ I can't not think of you dancing across the kitchen on those hideous platform boots now. It's amazing!" He put his fork away and waited for it to happen.

Dean blushed furiously. "You mean to tell me you don't have any musical guilty pleasures?" And yet, his toe was tapping. "These girls were overplayed then, it's true. But the songs stand the test of time, man."

"I'm not guilty about them though," Aidan pointed out. He loved eighties' music. Synthesizers and drama with big hair and neon-colored clothes; what was not to love about that? "Hey Dean? Come sit down for a moment?"

The look on Aidan's face was a serious one. Dean put down the plate he was washing and turned down the music significantly. "What's up, Aidan?" he asked. "Are you all right?"

Aidan waved at him to come have a seat. He was trying to keep things light, although he knew it wouldn't be a light topic. "Have you uh, have you ever heard of cell memory?" he started. "Dr. Pace—Lee—said that my dreams might have an explanation. Cell memory."

"Cell memory," Dean repeated the term, drying his hands on a dishtowel before sitting down with Aidan. He remembered Richard handing him a few articles from magazines that he'd printed out. _You should read these,_ Richard had told him at the time. _It'll help you better understand what Aidan's going through._

He had skimmed a few, in case Richard asked, but he hadn't given any of them the attention he should have. The term stuck out however, in conjunction to references to horror films. One in particular stuck in his mind; a woman got new corneas from a corpse who had been a serial killer and she wound up reliving all his crimes.

"It's when a body part transmits the donor's memories to the recipient. It's not real, though... right?"

Aidan raised his shoulders. "Lee referred me to several articles. He's a doctor, he wouldn't say it if it's at least a little bit possible." Dean was missing the point, although he was halfway there. "He wouldn't have said it if he didn't know who my donor was."

Dean's forehead crinkled in thought, but only momentarily. Then, he sat up straight in his chair. A heart had become available the day Richard died. Aidan had been dreaming from Richard's perspective, reliving his private moments. 

"No," Dean shook his head in denial, tears coming to his eyes. "His heart would have been too badly damaged in the accident."

Dean's denial cut nonetheless. "Nobody said so, though," Aidan whispered. "They retrieved organs from him after the accident. They didn't specify which ones, or where they have gone. Lee told me, Dean. It's not speculation. I'm sorry."

"Oh...." Dean clasped his hand over his mouth, eyes brimming with tears. He got up slowly from the table. 

_Aidan had his dead husband's heart beating in his chest._

"I—I need to go..." Dean backed away, nearly blinded by a frightening combination of anger, grief and something else he couldn't quite identify. "Don't wait up for me, Aidan," he managed before hurrying from the room. Aidan heard him open the hall closet to retrieve his jacket, and the jangling of car keys as Dean left through the front door.

"Don't drive—-" Aidan cried after him. The door slammed shut. "—please."

His dinner, half-finished, was cooling on the table, and the Spice Girls still caterwauled from the CD player. He could have imagined it to go like that. Aidan had expected more anger, true, but to know that Dean was getting into his car—the same way Richard had gotten into a car after finding out about Aidan passing out—and Aidan couldn't run after him, it terrified him. He snatched his phone off the table.

Dean wouldn't answer him, but maybe a message would reach him.

_Don't take the car. I can go if you need space. Don't drive like this._

A minute later the phone dinged. 

_Don't tell me what to do,_ the text said. _Not right now. I'm not drunk. I just need to be away from people right now. Please leave me alone. This is a lot to digest._

Aidan put his phone away miserably. Richard hadn't been drunk, the day he had been killed in a car crash. There was nothing he could do. Calling Martin or Adam would only make Dean more upset.

Should he have waited to tell him this? Would that have made it easier?

He moved the last portion of his curry into a Tupperware box, put it in the fridge and retreated to his room, where he found his journal lying under several papers, lay down on the bed with his regular clothes still on, and waited for the right words to come.

He'd wait until he would hear Dean come home again, he vowed to himself.

Aidan fell asleep around five in the morning still straining for the sound of the door opening.


	17. The Waiting's the Best Part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aidan goes out on a date with the man who saved his life.

Dean didn't return until the next day, shortly before lunch. Aidan was awakened from sleep by the sound of Dean's footsteps walking past his room and the rustling of paper shopping bags.

He considered going out and seeing him. But Aidan was just as relieved to hear a sound from him as he was angry. Dean had been out all night, not a word from him. Aidan had checked the emergency news for accidents every half hour.

And so he huffed to himself and decided to return to his writing.

Dean took his purchases to the kitchen to unpack. A night of revisiting old haunts--thank god spring was in the air--had taken him to Hyde Park, where he sat near the Isis statue for a long, long time. He had run the full gamut of emotions.

He was angry at Aidan for stealing Richard's heart for this, the final time. Aidan was alive, and Richard was not. It wasn't fair. And yet this was exactly what Richard would have wanted.

Not only was Aidan now in possession of Richard's heart, but some of his memories as well? The idea of that made Dean more than a little uncomfortable. But it also explained why Aidan seemed more grounded lately. He was _writing,_ for Christ's sake!

Richard was gone, leaving Aidan in his place, in his house, finishing his novel. There was nothing about this situation that Dean could change, he came to realize, except how he reacted to it.

He had sat on the bench until dawn touched the sky, then walked some more, until it was a decently humane hour to call someone. He called Cate Blanchett, his agent. She did not seem at all surprised when he told her he was taking a break from art. He would finish up Osiris, of course, but then he needed a sabbatical. Time of return? Yet to be determined.

Then, Dean did what he'd wanted to do for weeks. He drove to Divertimenti, a kitchen supply store on Brompton Road, and bought some of the items his cooking instructor had talked about in class--a bamboo steamer set, a pasta machine that made not only ravioli and pierogies but noodles as well, and a butter stamp. Then, he went grocery shopping. Tonight, he was going to experiment.

After a nap.

He was genuinely surprised when Aidan didn't come out to speak to him. He heard music playing in Aidan's room, so he knew he was awake. He felt as if he should knock on the door and apologize. But what for, exactly? 

_I'm sorry I reacted so poorly to the fact that my husband died and gave you his heart and his house?_ He scoffed. No, directly to bed, then.

He really didn't want to be around when Dr. Pace showed up for 'the big date' anyway.

Aidan, for his part, kept away from Dean that day. He didn't want to risk running into him and facing another rejection, and Dean had made it clear enough he didn't want to see him until further notice. His anger was abating gradually, in favor of the idea of the evening approaching.

At four, he took a shower and found the most decent clothes he could find without losing a hint of casualness. If it turned out not to be a date, Aidan knew he would look stupid.

At five, he stood by the front door with a message left on the kitchen table for Dean-- _Off into town. Have a good evening. Aidan_ ; simple and safe--and waited to be picked up.

The sound of the front door opening and closing roused Dean from his nap. "Oh... oh, _hey..._ " he stumbled from bed in his pajamas and into the hallway, calling down the stairs. "Aidan?"

Silence greeted him. Aidan didn't drive, and Lee wasn't coming until seven. Galloping down the stairs, hair awry, he found Aidan's note. _Off into town._ Surely he didn't plan to walk the whole way!

Dean pushed open the front door, about to call up the street to his housemate. Instead, he found Aidan sitting on the front porch stoop. He sigh in relief. "I thought Dr. Pace wasn't coming 'til seven," Dean scolded.

Aidan looked at him oddly. It was plain he had not expected Dean there, and certainly not with concern. "...I asked if he could come earlier," he said. "Yesterday was a long day. I don't want to fall asleep on him before dessert."

"Oh," Dean hugged himself against the chill. "Listen, Aidan, about last night, I'm sorry I freaked out. I didn't know what to say. I still don't. Richard was--well, he was my _life._ He was the only person who ever really accepted me unconditionally, you know? And while I'm glad that his dream of you getting a heart was realized, you having _his_ heart is going to take some getting used to," Dean told him. "And I'm sorry I just ran off like that. I was afraid I'd do or say something stupid. I'm not mad at you. I'm mad that I no longer have him. I wish he and I were upstairs getting dressed and ready to go out to dinner right now. I miss him so much, and it's not getting any easier. So, you know... enjoy what you've been given. Dr. Pace is handsome, and obviously brilliant. I hope you have a good time," Dean said solemnly, and went back inside.

Aidan looked after him, a wry smile remaining in Dean's wake. Aidan understood. It wasn't easy to accept that Richard's heart beat in his chest now. Though he was growing used to the idea that in a way, Richard would remain with them in this way, and that he was going to take good care of his heart, it would be different for Dean. 

At least his decision to avoid Aidan was past.

He could not think too long on it, because a cab pulled up in front of the house. Of course, Lee wouldn't be driving on the left side of the road. He got out the back, inclined his head at Aidan with a smile, and held the door open for him.

"Aidan. hi." Lee studied him carefully from head to toe, assessing him. "Well, you look all right. I mean," he blushed, sliding into the seat next to Aidan. "You look great. When you asked me to come earlier than planned I thought you might be feeling under the weather. Any pain or shortness of breath?"

"Long night," Aidan apologized. "I told Dean yesterday." He sat forward and told the driver the address, before settling back and giving Lee his full attention. "Thanks. For, you know, the compliment. You don't look so bad yourself. So this is how you look when you're not in the hospital?"

Lee chuckled, looking down at his thin blue sweater and gray dress slacks. "I'm away from the hospital so rarely I haven't had time to cultivate a _look._ So, how did Dean receive the news? I imagine several different scenarios, none of them pleasant."

Aidan shrugged. He didn't want to talk about it much. It would feel like talking behind Dean's back, which tended to be the key to a lot of drama that he didn't feel like having. "He needed time away from me, but I saw him just a couple of minutes ago. He's getting used to the idea already, I think. Enough about that though. How much of London do you know?"

"I know a two block radius around the Royal Brompton Hospital," Lee said. "I wish I were joking about that."

"You--well, that won't do. Aren't you at least staying in a hotel further away from the place you work than two blocks?" Dean forgotten, Aidan sat so he could face Lee, or as much as the seat belt allowed him to. His physical discomfort was getting less, which meant he could finally start moving naturally again. Soon he'd have to consider auditioning and trying to get a steady cashflow coming in again.

But tonight Aidan wanted to indulge himself. "I can't let you decide to live in London based on food alone," he told Lee sternly, a hint of a playful smile in the corners of his lips. "You need to at least go sightseeing once. How are you supposed to know which area suits you?"

It was also an attempt at figuring out more about Lee's intentions.

"I know you're not a Brit," Lee grinned. "Not with that accent, at least. So, what was it kept you here? Show me those things, Aidan."

Aidan accepted that chance gratefully.

He led Lee to what could coincidentally be the first stop on that list of factors why Aidan was still in London. The West End was teeming with activity. Half an hour from then, several shows would commence, and people were either queuing at the entrance or enjoying a last drink before finding their seats at the last minute. "This," Aidan said while he walked sideways to face Lee, "is where I want to be. Up there, on the stage, in front of people who are looking for a laugh and a tear. I've managed a few small roles, but eventually, this is where I'm supposed to end up."

He walked him proudly past a _Wicked_ billboard and into a smaller alley off the side, under a China red archway, before stopping in front of a hidden door. "And in here you'll find the city's best Korean barbecue. But we could also go for steak, a few blocks further, or I can recommend several great pubs. How about it?"

"I suppose I haven't told you," Lee's eyes were twinkling, "that I come from New York. I went to med school in the Big Apple. This part of town--it reminds me of Broadway."

The smell coming from the door under the archway was heavenly. "Is it madness that an Irishman is taking me out for Korean barbecue in London?"

Little did he know that for that smile, Aidan's stomach did a pleasant flip, nor that Aidan hoped to be making Lee look at him with those eyes again that night. It was a gorgeous smile. Lee wasn't treating him as the patient that Dean had on several occasions hinted he would see him as. He was kind-hearted and intelligent. Aidan's only concern--that someone so unlike his usual type could be boring--didn't look like it had a chance at becoming reality.

This could potentially be the guy to stick around, if Aidan didn't fuck it up.

"Only if you think it's madness this Irishman is trying to make an American share the meal with him. I'd fly to New York and let you take me to the best pasta restaurant if I could." Aidan took it as a yes. He walked in, looked over his shoulder at Lee--beginning to feel a little nervous, but in a good way--and waited to be shown to their table. "I asked for window seats," he confessed. "It'll allow you to see the streets of London from a different perspective."

"Thank you for this," Lee told him after they'd both ordered dinner. "I'm sure my life seems glamorous, but it's honestly just a stream of lectures, patient consults, surgeries and hotel rooms. It's such a genuine treat to feel like a human being again." He looked wistfully out the window at the people passing by. "So, tell me about the last show you were in."

"Oh, it's honestly not much. I've been that guy with one line in television shows, or the understudy that didn't get his chance. I've been the lead in an unsuccessful show that you wouldn't know the name of. I've played in the Shakespeare Theater though," Aidan said proudly. He was glowing. "I've been Puck. _A Midsummer Night's Dream_. It's hardly glamorous to be an actor either, if you are continuously looking for a new opportunity or, when you finally find something, to try and remain genuine night after night. But I must say, that moment when the audience gives a standing ovation makes everything worth it. And I get to be a thousand different people in one lifetime."

He ordered a Coke for himself when the waitress came by, and watched them set up the barbecue before them. Aidan glanced at Lee several times while the waitress busied herself with the circular device.

Something about him looked sad, like he loved his job but barely got the chance to be himself or around himself while he practiced his profession. "Isn't it lonely?" Aidan blurted out. "To come home to a hotel room every night? How is your life in New York?"

"I'm really okay, most of the time," Lee told him. "I'm saving a lot of lives, while saving up a lot of money. But then I see a happy couple walking down the street sharing an umbrella and I wonder, _who am I saving it for?_ I don't even have a cat to leave my money to." He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "While I don't really have time to be lonely, I do have time to think about the possibilities. Does that make sense?"

"Everybody wants to be happy," said Aidan. He felt sorry for Lee, who for all his ability and charm had not found that which Aidan had been looking for as well, only each through a different approach. But his past wasn't something he wanted to bring up. Lee might think him loose, and the point was to get Lee to start liking him.

Slices of beef and bowls with lettuce arrived on several platters, placed around him, and the barbecue was lit up. So okay, maybe Aidan had brought Lee here because he hadn't had barbecue in forever and it would be like striking two birds with one stone. When the lady wished them a good meal and left them to themselves, Aidan nonetheless waited for Lee to take the first slice. "I can't wait to start working again," he admitted. "Being tied to a bed for weeks gets boring. It makes you feel like you're useless. I started writing because of a part in Richard's will, but also because I needed something to do. And writing turns out to be more fun than I expected, but I miss going outside and being among people, you know. I love acting, I really do. But to work so much that I didn't have time to go out for dinner, or have fun with friends, I'd get very lonely."

Lee looked around helplessly at all the bowls and gadgets. "Um... what exactly do we do now?"

"Oh!" Aidan stabbed one slice of meat onto his fork and put it on the barbecue. "It's easy, you just mix and match. These sauces," he pushed a dish forward, "are spicy but really good with pork. And you can put small bits of meat onto the lettuce, or eat separately, whatever way you want it. You're, uh, not a vegetarian, are you?"

"Definitely not." Lee picked up one of the long, slender forks and imitated Aidan's gesture. "Seems like we're working for our supper. Is that it? At, at the rate it might take to cook, we could be here awhile."

"How long have you got?" Aidan was quite focused on his meal, but that was only because he felt like his eyes continued to be glued to Lee when he was not. "I've got until I need sleep."

"Me too, mostly," Lee smiled. "I do have a few patients to see tomorrow. But that's tomorrow," he took a sip of his beer. "This is neat. Reminds me of camping when I was a kid. So," he changed the subject, "you say you're writing? Is it about your transplant experience?"

Turning his meat over, although it still stuck to the barbecue, Aidan promptly shook his head. "That's just the diary. Actual fiction. I haven't got a story going yet. They're just short drabbles so far. I'm following an online course. I used to write a lot when I was younger, actually, but then I got all these distractions. So what do you do with your day when you've got time left?"

"I jog a bit," Lee told him, turning over his own piece of beef, "although mostly in New York City. Not so much here. I'm afraid to get lost," he chuckled. "And I read. In fact, you'll never guess what book's on my Kindle right now."

"But you would tell me the title without letting me guess for it if I really couldn't know," Aidan smiled. "So it has to be something I can guess. I have no idea what you like to read, Lee. Is it Richard's book?"

Lee chucked and blushed, "Yeah," he admitted. "It's _Blood on the Quill_. I researched online and it's the first of his Coventry series. I'm trying to wrap my head around it, although I've never been a mystery-thriller kind of guy. I do like his use of language, though."

Aidan felt warm when quite unexpectedly he recalled the many students that had taken Richard's class just to be in his presence. It was funny that the memory was now expanded into a first person perspective. "He was a wonderful writer. Not everyone understood just how many poetry references he liked to hide in his books. It's not going to be easy to equal the many layers he added to his stories. Well, I won't tell you how it goes."

And just like that, his eyes grew distant and his smile faltered. Aidan had been to this place with Richard once, a long time ago.

"Wait." Lee, held up a hand. "Are you writing a new Coventry novel?"

"Me?" Aidan blanched. "Oh, no. I'm not nearly good enough for that." How was he to explain Lee that he was working towards maybe one day being good enough, without upsetting the agent he didn't yet contact about all this?

"I'm sorry," Lee apologized. "I must have misunderstood you." He picked up his fork and poked at the beef with his finger. "Ouch... shit!" he muttered. "That's hot."

That elicited a laugh from Aidan. "Yes it is! You didn't burn yourself, did you? Listen, I have to be honest, so please don't tell anyone." He could keep secrets, but bending the truth had never sat well with him and now that Lee seemed to have jumped to the wrong conclusion, Aidan could not keep it at that. "Richard asked me in his will. I _want_ to. But whether I actually will depends on skill. And I really have no idea whether his agent is going to kill me when he finds out, even though he's technically my agent now."

But Aidan stopped talking when Lee put the tip of the burned finger in his mouth, and quickly scraped his throat when Lee caught him.

"In Japan," Lee said to cover his embarrassment, "when someone burns their finger, they automatically reach for their earlobe. Apparently it's much cooler than your mouth. And a lot more sanitary," he added with a smile. "If I may ask," he leaned forward, as if someone nearby might be spying, "do you feel you can do it? Write like Richard Armitage, I mean."

"I can't replace him," Aidan said at once, a faint flush on his cheeks because he'd been caught staring, and because he would not care about whether it was sanitary if that mouth--no, best not go there. "Dean says my style reads like his, but he probably now thinks it's because I have Richard's heart, not because I helped him develop at least half of the storylines to an extent. But writing is not just summing up a story. The way he uses words, my vocabulary is not remotely close to his."

Lee nodded, dipping the cooked piece of beef into the least spicy of the sauces and putting it his mouth to chew. He hummed appreciatively at the taste. After he swallowed, he asked, "Why did you tell Dean the truth?"

The crafty package of meat, combined with the spicy-looking chili-sprinkled cabbage and hot sauce, all wrapped in a leaf of lettuce, held Aidan's attention, though he continued nonetheless to look up every second. When he was finally done and popped the food into his mouth in one go, Aidan contentedly enjoyed it. "Because he deserves it," he replied after swallowing it down. "They were partners. I feel bad for him, having to go from Richard to where he is now. They loved each other so much. Everyone he's going to end up with, when or if he thinks of dating again, is going to have to compete with that. The thing is, if I knew and kept it from him, it wouldn't feel right."

"It was brave, telling him," Lee told him, sticking more meat over the flames. "Especially since those dreams you told me about--the ones from Richard's point of view. I wonder, have they changed how you feel about Dean?"

That wasn't what Aidan wanted to be talking about when on a potential date with a man like Lee. "They're frustrating dreams. I'm not--you see, I'm not in those dreams. I'm basically witnessing two people in love with each other. So sure, I'm envious of that, except not entirely, because Richard left him heartbroken when he lost his life. Besides, Dean has started being nicer to me than before. We actually talk these days. It's not an easy answer."

"I guess I sound like I'm interviewing a research subject." Lee's long fingers began peeling the label off his beer. "It's just, well, it's fascinating what you're going through, Aidan. You've actually been infused with some of another person's memories, his behaviors. It might see a natural conclusion that maybe even some of his desires are part of that package," Lee added, experimentally. "But enough about that. Tell me about your parents. What do they do?"

After that, the conversation took a safer turn and an hour passed. 

Aidan thought he had pretty much no chance with Lee anymore, after Lee spoke about Aidan wanting someone else so casually and not giving him the opportunity to dispute it.

He decided he would just have a fun night out, and that would be it. It was an unsettling thought anyway, the idea of wanting Dean like that. It wasn't that he was unattractive, it was just that whatever Aidan did, it seemed to be the wrong thing. Imagine trying to be with someone like that. How would feeling inadequate be able to make him happy?

That, and Dean's heart belonged to Richard.

And so Aidan ignored the notion the rest of the evening. He laughed with Lee, shared stories of before the accident, and talked about anything that crossed their minds. By the time dessert came around, Aidan was beginning to miss the sleep he had lost the night before coming up for a rematch, and his look turned mellow.

"You're either exhausted," Lee put his fingers below Aidan's chin and tipped his face up to examine him, "or I've bored you." He looked a little sad. "Shall I see you home?"

"Exhausted," Aidan mumbled apologetically. Something stirred at the unexpected contact. "Never boring. Let's do this again soon? I like being around you."

Lee brightened, looking for all the world like a young boy whose mother said he could open a Christmas present on Christmas Eve. He pulled out his phone to call a cab. The contact with that small piece of flesh had sent sparks shooting through Lee's system. It was the first time he hadn't touched Aidan like a doctor touches a patient. 

Spring was in the evening air as they stood outside waiting for the cab to arrive. Lee allowed their hands to touch tentatively as they stood there on the curb.

Next to him, Aidan glanced at Lee when he felt a hand brushing his. But Lee wasn't pulling away, meaning it was not an accident. Aidan allowed his hand to brush against Lee slightly more boldly, until by the time the cab arrived, his fingers were ghosting delicately across the palm of Lee's hand. It was ridiculous for a grown man with his history to be so pleasantly buzzed and jittery at something as silly as footsie for hands. "See me to the door?" he asked.

"Of course," Lee gave his hand a little squeeze before Aidan slid out of the seat before him. Lee nearly tripped unfolding himself from the confined space. "English cars were not made for people my height," he lamented, rubbing the top of his head where he'd bumped it getting out of the car.

With a solid hand in the middle of Aidan's back, Lee led him to the stoop. "Can I see you again before I fly back to America?" he asked.

Aidan turned on the first step to the door, bringing him on the same height as Lee. His eyes were alive, his smile sleepy but inviting. "When are you available?"

"Evenings are best," Lee told him. "I fly out Saturday afternoon. That's two more days. I'm sorry for the short notice."

"Tomorrow evening then?" Aidan looked like he was hoping for something--and not necessarily a verbal answer.

"Try to be better rested, then," Lee suggested, "because I'd really like to spend more time with you than we did tonight. Deal?" he leaned forward to kiss Aidan on the cheek. "Text me when you figure out what you'd like to do, and when you'd like me to come get you."

It was in a way special how Lee wasn't suggesting coming inside, or how the kiss Aidan received was chaste but filled with promise. He wanted to lean in and catch his lips, but he also wanted Lee to have that to look forward to. That, and Lee moved like he had not gone on a date in ages. Aidan didn't want to scare him off. They could take their time with each other. And so he returned a kiss on the cheek, feeling pleasantly buzzed. "I already know what I want to do, but if you're giving me an excuse to text you, count on it."

He watched as Lee moved back to the cab, looking over his shoulder several times. Aidan didn't turn away until the cab was out of sight, and then still he lingered on the steps. When he made it inside, he knew this could be something--and that though they hadn't even properly kissed, his body was burning up.

When Aidan went inside, he found Dean sitting on a stool in the kitchen. He had opened and unpacked the new pasta machine, and the components were all over the wooden block top of the island in the center of the room. "Cheers," Dean raised his mug of tea in Aidan's direction. "I'm surprised you're home so early."

It would be easy for Aidan to let that comment unduly ruin his mood, because it felt like criticism, but he was simply too high on the warmth happiness to bother. Sliding onto a chair in the kitchen, he shrugged with all the grace of a grinning cat. "I wouldn't be home if I wasn't so tired," he purred. "I had a good time. We're continuing it tomorrow."

Dean, a metal gizmo shaped like a corkscrew in one hand, looked up at him. "Wow, that's great, Aidan. So it went well, then? No weird doctor-patient vibes? "

"None." Aidan draped his top half lazily over his arms on the counter. "He kissed me on the cheek. Imagine that, I thought chivalry was dead. Well, you look like you had a fun night too. Did you make something?"

Dean snorted. "Not yet. I heated up some leftovers. This," he gestured at the dismantled machine, "bloody thing is far more complicated than I expected. Clearly, I need to spend more quality time with it. The instructions are worse than an IKEA bureau!" he lamented.

So, Aidan had gotten a kiss from the handsome doctor. Not a surprise, of course. Aidan was gorgeous and charming. "Sounds like the date was a success. What are you doing tomorrow, then?"

"Sightseeing, probably," Aidan mused. "I need to come up with a couple of romantic landmarks, I think. Maybe a bookshop. The Thames isn't exactly date-worthy material, nor Westminster with its layer cake of graves. I have no idea what I'm doing with a guy who's returning to his home on the other side of the world in two days, but I think I like it." He looked over the device. "Is it for pasta? I've seen my aunt use one of those things once."

"Yeah," Dean told him, deciding to address the safer subject. "You feed the dough in at the top and it comes out here. The shape is based on the attachments. This model has a lot of them," Dean flicked one of the doodads with his finger. "Adam was talking about this place called Bounce. It's a pub with creative entrees and appetizers. They have ping pong tables set up all over. Richard and I kept meaning to go... but well, you know how it is. Life gets in the way." He ran his finger longingly around the lip of his mug, as if it were running over Richard's knuckles. "I always wanted to go."

"Ping pong on a second date," Aidan considered, his mind somewhere else and not quite catching on that Dean wasn't proposing it as a romantic venue. "Maybe. I'll think about it. It sounds fun though. You should let Adam take you there." He stretched and yawned, then winced when his body did not agree with the stretch. It would still take months before he could do so without pain. The scar, on the other hand, would never fade completely. "I'm going to bed. Are you giving the pasta machine a second chance tomorrow?"

"Yeah," Dean grinned sheepishly. "It's more complicated than I expected... and I need to work on Osiris tonight. Listen, ping pong is probably a horrible idea for you. Sometimes I forget about your surgery. It was a stupid suggestion. I'm sorry. Maybe someday, when you're feeling better, you and I can go. But only when you're healed. When I beat you, I don't want it to be because I have the health advantage," his eyes sparkled. "I want a fair fight."

Aidan snorted. "Having a fair fight at ping pong has nothing to do with me being a heart patient. If you want fair, you let me practice for at least two months." He stuck his tongue out at Dean childishly. There were a number of things he noticed despite his sleepiness. For one, Dean seemed in a good mood despite the pasta machine and, before that, Aidan's revelation of the origin of his heart. For two, he seemed to be working on Osiris again. Not willing to jinx his progress, he kept his mouth about that. "But I'm awesome at the video game, if you're up for that."

Dean set his mug carefully aside and looked up hopefully. "I thought you were tired," he said cautiously. The look in his eyes telegraphed that he hoped Aidan wasn't.

"I didn't mean tonight," Aidan said. "I _am_ tired. But maybe tomorrow, or the day after that." What was with Dean suddenly wanting to spend time with him? He didn't usually--

\--oh, but Dean had said he needed a break from Aidan. He had to be trying to make it up to him. It was the only explanation. "You've got half an hour," Aidan finally conceded. "Make it count."

Dean's smile shone like a beam of sunshine. It occurred then to Aidan that Dean must be terribly lonely. He'd have to be to want to spend time with him, wouldn't he?

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Dean wondered, hopping off his stool.

"Nothing!" Aidan laughed. "It's just, you know, you actually like hanging out with me lately, did you notice?"

"No," Dean deadpanned. "I hadn't noticed."

"Oh, all right, all right." Dean's attempt at smoothing things over was unconvincing, and yet it was only amusing Aidan more. "Clock's ticking though. Twenty-nine and a half. Chop chop."

"I don't know what gave you the idea that I'm some sort of ping pong expert, by the way," Dean led the way to Aidan's room. "I played once or twice at university. Most of the ping pong I played after that involved plastic cups and beer, and not a paddle in sight." He smiled. "So... you kissed him."

The drowsiness creeping away without much effort, Aidan thought that was a peculiar thing for Dean to dwell on. Aidan did not mind telling, but technically he knew he'd just be gleefully oversharing things that weren't Dean's business. Yet here Dean was asking him first-hand about the big question. "Cheek," he sighed. "Is it weird that though he's just taking it slow, it doesn't feel reassuring? I'm not--well," he knew this would be too much information, " _you_ asked. I'm not used to waiting."

Dean should have taken him somewhere else though. As soon as Aidan caught sight of the bed, his fatigue returned full force. He allowed himself to fall down on the mattress and smiled lazily.

"Hey..." Dean rushed to his side. "Be careful, dammit! You can't just flop down like that!" He put a hand over Aidan's breastbone, not pushing, but resting comfortably. "Does it hurt?"

Unexpectedly, Aidan started laughing. "Not if I fall down with my elbows beneath me. It's getting better, see? It still hurts when I stretch, but less when I do something like this."

"Yes, but..." Dean pulled his hand away as if it'd been bitten by a snake. "Just be careful, okay?" He got up and turned on the Xbox, although he had no idea where to actually find a Pong program, if one even existed. Instead, his thoughts were back on Aidan's date. 

_I'm not used to waiting._

"The waiting's the best part, you know," Dean told him. "Getting to know each other--to _like_ each other."

Lazier than before, Aidan curled up on the bed. He left some space for Dean to sit in the middle, Pong quite forgotten. "I suppose. I'm ready to wait, you know, if he's worth waiting for. But what if it turns out I'm reading into it all wrong? What if he thinks he likes me because he just wants _someone_? If I wouldn't be waiting, at least I'd know. Yes or no. Not a big, big maybe." He huffed to himself. "But no waiting means quick rewards, and quicker breakups. I don't know how to do these things, Dean. I'm just improvising, really."

"To me, Dr. Pace seems like the kind of guy who could have any man--or woman--he wanted," Dean remarked. "He also doesn't seem like the kind of guy who'd spend his time foolishly, so you must have made a good impression on him. And he asked to see you again, so yeah..." Dean nodded. "Seems promising. Still, there's the whole _living in America_ thing..."

" _Living in America_ ," echoed Aidan with a sigh. "He's considering living here, but I don't want that to be dependent on me, until we're seeing each other steadily for half a year or something. So far though, the record stands at four months and five days. Good luck, Aidan." He nudged Dean's side. "I don't think I'm going to make it through Pong."

"It's all right," Dean told him. "You should rest. Do you want me to go?"

"I don't mind you here." The blond looked so hopeful for attention that evening that he reminded Aidan of a lost puppy. It wasn't even nine yet, and Aidan really ought to try and stay awake a little longer, before waking up at three and wouldn't be able to go back to sleep--not that he thought he could stay up ten minutes longer. "I need to write something for tomorrow's assignment. Have any ideas?"

"Um," the question caught Dean off-guard. "Have you written about your surgery yet? Or..." he reached for the table nearby where the corner of Aidan's journal was visible, "what about something from in here?" He held up the leather-bound book.

Aidan became alert in the span of a second. He snatched the journal away from Dean at once, stuffing it under his pillow and laying his head on it to block its contents. "That's private," he muttered, self-aware and suddenly nervous. "...Surgery stuff. I've written enough about that. Something else?"

Aidan's eagerness to hide the journal wasn't lost on Dean. It only made him more curious about what was inside it.


	18. Osiris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean finishes his painting. Aidan catches a cold.

"If you won't share them with me, maybe you should write about your dreams then... for your class." 

Dean pulled his knees up under his chin, resting it upon them, eyes twinkling mischievously. He knew he was treading on dangerous ground. "The _good_ dreams."

Aidan's eyes widened. "What do you know?"

"I know what you told me," Dean responded. "That you dreamed you were Richard. You dreamed you were with me. And the way you acted when you first came home from the hospital.... Well, I put two and two together. You must have dreamed we were," he blushed, "you know... intimate."

Aidan's head fell back. Groaning in mortification, he screwed his eyes shut. Dean was not supposed to know that much! Just enough to stop asking questions; that had been Aidan's plan. "I told you it's private. Can't we talk about something else? I swear, I'll write a story of a knight in shining armor on a rainbow bridge at the edge of the world before I write homework prose about _that_. Yes, fine, you and Richard having sex. I can't be blamed for his memories of you."

Dean leaned back in his chair, turning towards Aidan. "You realize I haven't had sex in almost three months," Dean told him, "unless you count my own hand as a willing partner. Why do you think I asked about you and Lee? At this point, I'm ready to start living vicariously through someone else. So, tell me more. Was it good?"

Helpless eyes looked straight at him. Was Dean for real? Was he honestly expecting Aidan to get laid and tell him about it, so he could jerk off to the memory of a friend having sex? Aidan was open about many things, but that was crossing boundaries. "I told you it's private, Dean." He shook his head. "Find someone if you want a willing partner, but don't ask me to tell you things like these. My life's not a porn channel, and I'm not comfortable with that."

Dean grew suddenly quiet. He had crossed the line. He willed the chair to devour him whole. Instead, he had to say something. "I didn't mean that I'd—you know," his hand flopped helplessly, which didn't in any way help his cause. "I'm sorry. It didn't mean that you should... shit," he buried his face in his hands and groaned. "Can we maybe change the subject?"

Aidan wholeheartedly agreed, no words spoken. He lay curled on his pillow with wide eyes still looking at Dean, but he didn't know what else to talk about. It was difficult to make sense of the cluster of fragmentary ideas that made up his mind. Part of him was genuinely offended. Dean's request underlined what Aidan was afraid his friends thought about him; that he was easy. But then there was the part that felt sorry for Dean. That part was undoubtedly Richard's influence. Dean had lost the love of his life, and he missed the physical part of it. Aidan wanted to tell Dean just how much Richard must have cared about him if it was manifesting in dreams.

The part where Dean wanted to hear about him and Lee and any success—including details—in getting him into bed, well, that was highly uncomfortable.

"What do you think of me?" Aidan asked finally, quietly. "What makes you think you can ask me that?"

Dean shook his head. "That's not it. That's not it at all, Aidan. I just..." he blinked back tears, "I just wanted to hear you talk about Richard." The leather creaked as Dean got to his feet. "I'm going to go mess with that pasta maker a bit more, I guess. Goodnight."

Aidan released his breath with a sigh. His eyes were wet, but he refused to let anything spill. "His heart recalls you. Strongly. Too strongly sometimes. I don't get a say in my own dreams, Dean. I'm just there on the sideline, watching as someone else takes over and shares things with me that I don't want to know. Lee says I need to make memories of my own, but no matter what I do or how much I try, I don't think I will ever find a love of my own that can overshadow what he felt for you. Do you understand how painful that is?"

"It's not fair for you to compare what Richard and I had to what you've had with others," Dean told him, hovering in the doorway. "Every relationship is different. Every person in every relationship is different. I'll never have what I had with Richard again, no matter how badly I want it, or how hard I try." Dean studied his sneaker-clad toes. "I'm jealous you're dating, because I miss it. And I'm sorry it's making me act like a brat. I need to try harder to be a better person, Aidan. I don't know enough about you to judge you, and I'm not, I swear. I just miss Richard. It seems to be all I can really do with any competence."

"I'll help with the pasta machine tomorrow." Curled up on the bed, Aidan sadly smiled. "You're doing all right. We're both doing all right. It's just difficult to keep it up all the time. Richard always knew what to do. Us, we're a pair of incompetent idiots without him. We can only try." He sat up and gathered up his nightwear, nodding for Dean to go ahead, turn off the light and close the door. "Night, Dean."

\- - - - -

In the morning, Aidan woke to the smell of coffee and bacon. He found Dean in the kitchen standing by the stove, flipping over a piece of bread in a frying pan with a spatula. Upon closer inspection, he saw that Dean had made bird's nests to go with the bacon, which sat on a nearby paper-towel covered plate.

Dean turned to him with a smile. "I wasn't expecting you up so early." Dean was freshly showered. "But you're just in time." He lay two of the birds’ nests on a stoneware plate nearby with a helping of bacon. "Here you go."

"It was nine when I went to bed," replied Aidan while he ran a hand through his hair. "If I'm up early, what does that make you?" But he gratefully found himself a seat, pulled the plate in front of him and dug in. "Slept well?"

"Nope," Dean grinned, "but I'm celebrating." He picked up a piece of bacon and chomped into it.

Aidan tipped his head sideways, curiously amused. "It's good food, thanks. Celebrating what exactly?"

"I finished _Osiris_ ," Dean told him. "Could you pass the pepper?"

Perking up in his seat, Aidan took a moment to recall he had been asked for the pepper, and slid it over. "You finished it! How did it turn out? Can I see it?" He took another bite. After last night's dream, he could do with something savory. "What will you do with it?"

"It's in the studio," Dean told him. "We can go up after we eat." He poured Aidan a mug of coffee. "I'll call my agent and she will send some guys here to pick it up. They'll take it to a gallery, not sure which one. It'll sit for a few weeks and people will bid on it. A silent auction. Someone will end up purchasing it. The highest bidder. But prints will be sold as well." 

Dean took a bite of his egg and chewed it thoughtfully. "I think it turned out well," he said at length.

"You'd really sell the original?" It was such a personal piece. If Aidan had the money, he would have bought it, just so he could dedicate the now mostly empty library to a small room in the memory of Richard. But Dean would probably end up selling it for tens of thousands of pounds. And he needed the money for that apartment.

Aidan didn't like to consider that one day this house would be all his. It would be lonely.

"Can I have a print?" he asked, because that would be the closest thing.

The corner of Dean's eyes crinkled in surprise. "You'd want one? Of course. I'll make sure you get one, of course." Dean added more coffee to his mug and a packet of sugar. "I will, eventually, get back to the rest of the series. I just need a little break... but I will pick it back up."

Finishing the last of his breakfast, Aidan got up and fetched himself a glass of milk. He held the carton up in a silent question. "You'll work on Ra? You don't have to, you know. You can continue with your cooking classes. Though I do want to know what you made of Osiris. It's Richard, and you made it. Of course I'd want a copy. Shall we?"

"It's _Osiris,_ " Dean corrected quickly. "I just used Richard's face. You'll see. C'mon," he jerked his head in the direction of the stairs, letting Aidan go up ahead of him.

If he had to be honest, once he'd finished painting Richard's face, Dean had taken to covering it with a cloth while he worked on the rest of the painting. The central figure was Richard—and it wasn't. On the canvas, the figure of Osiris stood, arms holding back two very different armies. 

The army behind the left hand was painted in golds, pinks and peaches: the army of the living. They were men, women, children of all colors and sizes. Yet all were grim, troubled by whatever it was in their lives that might have lead them to thoughts of death. The hoard at Osiris' right hand was the army of the dead. Painted in blues, grays, silvers, green and purples, they too encompassed all age groups. Many were dressed in period clothing. Both groups were pushing at the barrier that Osiris formed, trying to cross over to the other side.

The look on Osiris' face was powerful. He appeared resolute, but weary. He was strong, but saddened. He did not look to the left or the right, but boldly forward. _Can you see what a burden I bear?_ his face conveyed. _And they are all fools!_ On his head was an ornate helmet, reminiscent of the shape of a jackal, his animal symbol. He was fierce, beautiful, and yet the image evoked pity.

"So, that's Osiris," Dean said, filling the awkward silence.

It was—simply put—perfect. Aidan continued to stare at the play between warm and cold, the weariness in Richard's eyes, and the balance in the details. He could look at it for hours and not be bored—and Aidan was not known for his profound love of the fine arts, other than an appreciation for pieces he liked.

Dean was right, it wasn't Richard. Aidan had never seen Richard with that look in his eyes. He was always hopeful, always optimistic, and if this was in any way Richard, then it had to represent the battles he had fought inside his mind. 

"Don't sell it," he muttered. "Sell prints of it, but not the original. Not right away. This is your best piece yet, Dean. I mean it, if you sold this, you'd be selling a part of yourself."

"I have to," Dean told him. "I'm a contracted artist. I'd still own the rights to it. And royalties from the sales of prints. It's taken a lot out of me, Aidan. I'm happy with it, but it isn't something I want to look at every day." He lovingly ran his finger along the unfinished edge of the canvas. "The look on his face scares me."

"Because it's not him. But it is. There's not a picture that could remind me more of him than this piece." Aidan sat down in front of the painting, still amazed. "You did a good thing picking him for Osiris. I know I wasn't happy about it, but if I look at it now..."

Dean stood behind Aidan and put a hand on his shoulder, "Do you think he'd like it?" Dean wondered.

Aidan squeezed his hand. "He'd be so proud of you. I mean it. He'd be self-conscious about it, but he would be so proud." Tears rose to his eyes. "It's a shame he's not here to see it."

"Yeah," Dean chuckled nervously. "He'd be really embarrassed. He looks hot though. Creepy hot."

"If you'd tell him that, you'd embarrass him even more." Aidan found himself enchanted by the painting. It was clear that Osiris transcended Richard in ways that Richard would not have become, and the combination was eerie, yet haunting. "To imagine that might have been me, and you and Richard would be here in this room instead. Make me a promise that when you draw me, you won't be in this same room a few months from now with Adam or Martin in my stead."

Dean's breath hitched. "I promise, Aidan," he said quietly. "Nothing is going to happen to you."

The hand squeezed Dean's again, and when Aidan remembered he was still holding onto it, he let go for a moment. But what did it matter? It gave him comfort just as it seemed to do the same for Dean. "Do you want to hear something really stupid?" he asked. "I think I'm coming down with a cold."

"What?" Dean came around in front of him and crouched down, looking up at him intently. "What symptoms have you been having, Aidan?"

Aidan found Dean's expression to warrant a chuckle. "Cold symptoms. Headache, nose gets clogged, would feel better with tea. It has nothing to do with my heart, I swear. And yes, the best thing you can do right now is hover in my cloud of germs in front of me and see if you can catch it too. It's a stupid thing to go to the doctor for, but I'm not sure I'm going to enjoy the coughing stage."

Dean tilted his head to the side with the oddest expression on his face. "Aidan," he reminded, "you're going out on a date with a doctor tonight..."

"Actually, I'm trying to separate him being a doctor from the person I'm dating," Aidan said flatly. "Too awkward to mix that up while he's still my doctor. Besides, he's a heart specialist."

"I think you need to tell him for two reasons," Dean smiled, "A, because he's your doctor and he's probably dealt with this problem before. And B, because he's _a_ doctor and might not want to get sick himself. I mean, you can't go sticking your hands insides people's chests if you're all germy, can you?"

Aidan hung his head. "Can't you motivate me to see a different doctor today, like a friend would?" He knew that any time now, Dean was going to suggest he cancel the date altogether. "Maybe I got it from him. Who knows? Maybe that's why I got that kiss on the cheek. I didn't have it yesterday, I swear."

"Maybe it's allergies," Dean suggested, "and not a cold at all. Maybe you're allergic to Lee!" Dean said, eyes twinkling. He got up and carefully brought a protective layer of paper from around the back of _Osiris_ to the front. "You need to consult your doctor. Before he flies four thousand miles away would be a good idea. Or, you could cancel your date if you're worried."

"Fuck you," Aidan laughed. "I knew you were going to turn it into something like that. Fine, I'll see if I can get an appointment before tonight and I'll tell him after that's done. Don't you fucking suggest I'm allergic to the first decent guy that's come across my path for years, all right?"

Dean appeared hurt. "It was just a joke," he busied himself straightening tubes of paint that didn't need straightening. "Make the appointment. I'll get you there. Whatever you need, okay?"

Aidan's eyes were beaming with merriment. "You're too easy." Dean always took him so seriously when Aidan was just having a laugh. "But thank you. It's really a beautiful painting, which is what we came here for. I think it shows how much you love him, if you don't mind me saying it."

"I don't mind hearing it," Dean's eyes met his. "I did love him. _Do_ love him. Rich can't be replaced. But I don't have to tell you that."

They stared at the covered painting both. "You know," Aidan started at last, right before patting his legs and getting up, "maybe one day you'll find space in your heart next to Richard. I think if you do, the one who gets to catch hold of that is going to be a lucky person indeed." He smiled. "Right, off to make that appointment."

Dean's gaze followed Aidan as he left the room, filled with concern. He could only imagine the strain that a cough would put on Aidan's compromised rib cage. He was worried about Aidan. A part of him wanted to try to convince Aidan to stay home and not go on his date. He could make Aidan chicken soup and they could watch really bad movies and Dean could catch the cold too and—

 _What the fuck am I thinking?!_ Dean chuckled and righted himself, taking one last longing look back at the covered painting. "I love you, Richard," he whispered to the empty room. "I'm ready to dream about you again, if you want to come back. Just... just don't scare me again, okay?" 

_And now I'm talking to my dead husband._ Dean sighed sadly and flicked off the light. He went downstairs to clean up the kitchen and then, maybe, a nap.

Aidan was already sitting in the kitchen, preparing himself a cup of tea. "Want some too?" he asked Dean when the other entered the room, in between looking for the honey. After months, the arrangement of the cupboards still sometimes eluded him, especially when it came to things he hadn't needed before. "I'm calling the doctor in a minute. Called him just now, but the line's busy. So I texted Lee about tonight. We'll see how the doctor's appointment goes. Hey, where do you keep the honey and the aspirins?"

"Aspirin's in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom across from your room," Dean told him. He opened the cabinet next to the oven and got out what appeared to be a golden apple. It turned out to be a honey pot shaped like an apple with an arrow piercing it. The top of the golden orb lifted off and the arrow turned out to be the honey dripper.

"Richard was really into archery as a teenager," Dean explained. "When he saw this, he had to have it. He even hummed the William Tell Overture the whole way home. Every time he got this damn thing out, in fact," Dean smiled fondly at the memory.

"Richard was a nerd," Aidan laughed. "I thought it was supposed to be the Apple of Love or something similar." Sniffing, he poured himself a liberal portion of the honey and handed the pot back. "Thanks. This is going to be one hell of a cocktail."

"Nerd, for sure," Dean picked up a dishtowel, "but he looked incredibly sexy in his glasses." He turned on the water and tested the temperature with his fingers. "There is a golden apple in lore—the apple of Discord. Apparently, the gods and goddesses were squabbling and Discord tossed a golden apple into their midst. Somehow, this started the Trojan War. I'm not sure of all the details," he shrugged. "But this honey pot was a nod to William Tell, for sure."

Aidan nodded, reminding himself that he needed to catch up on his knowledge of folklore and myths when he felt like it. It would probably be good reference material for his writing class. He stirred the tea, his mind already at the medicine cabinet, when his fingers felt sticky. Searching out the spot where the honey had spilled, he sucked on it to get it clean. "So your salt and pepper set, has it got a story too?" He eyed the odd design of a white and a black blob made out of wood.

Despite his efforts to look away, Dean couldn't will his eyes not to focus on Aidan's lips and fingers. His mouth grew inexplicably dry. Aidan knew exactly what he was doing. He had dark stubble on his chin and cheeks, which was one of Dean's biggest turn-ons. He knew he was adorable, the bastard.

Finally, he distracted himself by turning back to the sink. "I made them for a college art project, almost twenty years ago," Dean told him. 

Aidan actually didn't notice until he saw the stare. And in that moment, he knew he was holding a powerful thing. Because every time he got Dean embarrassed, Dean wouldn't be thinking about Richard. Besides, Dean had always been fun to embarrass. Aidan made sure he finished up with an audible pop, before hopping merrily onto a chair, his tea on the table in front of him. "It's cool. Does it symbolize anything? Like yin and yang, or just salt and pepper, or maybe the epic forces of light against dark? Or did you just like the shape?"

"I was dating Adam at the time," Dean said, on more solid ground. "Well, if you want to call it dating," he chuckled. "It's supposed to be a couple, hugging. But they ended up looking more like two misshapen ghosts, I suppose, didn't they?" He scrubbed the frying pan in the water with more intensity than the act required. "I learned pretty quickly that ceramics wasn't going to be my area of expertise."

"It's a cute set though," Aidan pointed out. He was considering in what way to push Dean a little further, when he thought of something else. "Hey, considering the number of antibiotics I take, I shouldn't technically even be able to get a cold. Isn't that weird?"

"So...." Dean rinsed the pan and put it in the strainer, "maybe it _is_ allergies. You know," he turned around, "Richard's allergies always flared up in the spring. Maybe you inherited those, along with his heart."

Aidan's face turned into a mask of horror. "Like being allergic to pollen? Oh, god no. I've managed to make it this far without that bloody allergy, I'm not going to start now." He couldn't imagine wanting to go outside in spring and having to worry about grass and flowers, which were the best things about spring, apart from the returning warmth and, once or twice, hormones. "What are the symptoms? So my nose is supposed to be jammed, I got it that far. What else?"

"Well, either clogged or running incessantly," Dean told him, using a wet cloth to clean the table. "But it was often just a headache or earache that tipped him off. The good news is, there's over the counter drugs that keep it all at bay. He usually took one a day from March through November."

"March until November? Every day? I'd rather have the cold. Christ. That's it, I'm calling right now."

Aidan dialed in the number with a punctuated press at every digit. He waited until he was put on hold—again—and grew more frustrated by the minute. When someone finally answered, he immediately fired, "Hi. I need to see a doctor. Now."

Dean was struggling to understand why Aidan didn't just talk to Dr. Pace about his problems. The man obviously cared about him, and would give him a thorough exam. What was he afraid of?

He politely turned away during Aidan's conversation, drying and putting away the breakfast dishes and cleaning crumbs off the counter.

"Well?" he asked after Aidan hung up.

It wasn't hard to tell by the look on his face that Aidan had not heard what he had wanted to be told. "Appointment at four. I'm really sorry, I keep asking you to drive me there. _Four_. By time we're done there, it'll be six. I wanted to take Lee into town this afternoon. We'll have close to no time left."

"Call him," Dean suggested. "Tell him you'll see him tonight at seven. That'll give you time to get ready. Or, you could tell him the truth."

"Please. Dating your doctor is like dating your teacher in high school." Lee could get into serious trouble if it came out that Aidan and he had gone on their first date while Lee was treating Aidan. "But fine, fine, I'll call him." And he took his phone back to his room for privacy.

Dean snorted as Aidan walked away. Richard had been his teacher. It was nothing like that at all.

\- - - - 

"It's all right, Aidan," Lee told Aidan over the phone. "Honestly. I'm tied up here at the hospital until at least five. I did tell you that... I think. I can't remember," he sighed. "Parts of last night were a bit of a blur."

Aidan could recall everything though. "Oh, well, I can't remember either. You probably haven't said it, but it makes sense, what with work and all." He leaned back against the headboard with his legs curled up under him. "Will you pick me up again? I failed to work out the perfect route, but I am really looking forward to improvising your sightseeing of the city. I had fun last night."

"I'm really glad to hear that, Aidan," Lee purred in his ear. "Most of the men I've been brave enough to ask out, they think I'm weird."

"You're not weird," Aidan shook his head. He was curling into a comfortable position. "How would you be weird? You're just very busy with your work."

"Well, I am," Lee insisted. "You'll just have to take my word for it. On that note, Aid, I have to run. I'm having lunch with the Royal Brompton Hospital Board. And yes, they are as scary as they sound. I'll be over at seven... if that's all right?"

"Sure. I'll be waiting!"

But Aidan kept wondering about what Lee considered weird after the call ended. If he was bookish and had Richard's sense of humor, Aidan would be just fine with that. Wearing pink frilly outfits on a Friday night... less so.

He was making himself afraid for no reason. Lee was kind and quite handsome. Children in the hospital loved him. He was quite the catch, and single at that.

Aidan rolled over and got out of bed. When he returned to the living room, he was beaming.

Dean was kneeling in front of the fireplace, gazing sadly into its gray, stone depths, a hearth brush in his hand.

"No more fires this year," Dean said quietly. "It's getting too warm outside. I don't know what it is about a fire in the hearth, but it always makes me feel safe and happy."

"It smells nice," Aidan had to admit. "And the crackling." He found himself a seat, put down his laptop, and started typing away. Aidan didn't stop until he had penned down several paragraphs, before he read it over and scowled at the choices he had made. "Tell me something that's green," he said. "First thing that comes into mind. Not a tree."

"Envy," Dean whispered, "the worst kind of envy."

Aidan considered that. "Fair enough. I can work with that." He continued writing, though the sound of typing was progressively slower. Eventually he turned into a drumming beat, humming pensively. "I should start finding a job again. Do you think I'm ready to audition?"

Dean slid the fireplace brush back into the niche where it resided normally. "I think as long as you don't go for any roles that are too physically demanding... sure, why not? You've got to be bored to tears here."

"Mh, apart from not being outside a lot, it's been okay," shrugged Aidan. "But it's too easy to stay inside and do nothing. I need to start making a living, if I plan on being able to afford all of this. There's going to be a time when the roof needs patching, or the freezer breaks down, and I don't have money for it now. The fact that I've been able to go out is because Mom has extended me some money, but I'd rather not live on her support. I'm thirty, Dean."

"Well," Dean sank onto the soft leather couch, "you could get a roommate." _Or a boyfriend_ "Life's easier and cheaper when you have someone to share it with. I can stay as long as you need me to," Dean offered, wincing when he realized how desperate it made him sound.

"That would be nice," the unexpected reply came. "But that doesn't mean you get to pay everything that happens around the house."

"It means we'd share the load, financially," Dean said. "Nothing more, nothing less. Maybe I'll even let you do some of the cooking."

"If you want to suffer food poisoning." Aidan cast a glance up from his laptop. "What about you though? You said you didn't want to stay in this house, because of your memories."

"I promised I'd stay until you didn't need me anymore," Dean reminded him.

Aidan smiled sweetly. "So if I'd pretend to need you even if I didn't, you'd continue to stay?"

Dean looked up at him, as if trying to assess if Aidan were serious. He swallowed thickly. "Yes."

Though Aidan had meant to tease Dean some after the easy opening he had given him, he couldn't quite mock him for his answer. "You're a good guy, Dean. If I still tell you I need you around in a few months' time, it'll be because I'm fond of your company. It's up to you whether that's a good enough reason. Thanks for sticking around when you don't have to."

Dean didn't think he had a proper response to this. Should he tell Aidan how packing up one box seemed like an insurmountable task? How packing up two impossible? How could he move to a new home when he could barely summon the energy to get out of bed most days?

More importantly, how could he tell Aidan how crucial it had been for him having Aidan to care for? Having someone need him? He couldn't tell him that.

"You've..." he began carefully, "...you've given me something to focus on. Something _worthwhile._ Maybe I need you here more than you need me."

It was then that, quite suddenly, Aidan thought it was a pity Dean belonged to Richard, and probably always would. He hadn't been so honest with any of the other people he knew in a long while. Dean had no idea he was a sweetheart, one of those rare few people who made the world nicer just by being in it. At last Aidan understood what had drawn Richard to him.

"I'm sticking around for a while," Aidan smiled. "Aren't we both lucky? Hey, want to try the pasta machine in a few?"

Dean smiled, but it was only half-hearted. "You should be getting ready for your appointment."

"The appointment is in three hours, and it's not a black tie event. No pasta machine?"

Dean chuckled. "Nah, not yet. I don't want to play with until I have a meal to cook. I'll be home alone tonight. It can wait. Heck, maybe I'll get it out again while you're gone and see if I can come up with some creative curse words I haven't used yet."

Aidan understood that Dean wanted something else than to talk about besides the subject they had just addressed. He accepted that, and returned to his laptop. "I'll find Lee and me some Italian tonight," he mentioned while figuring out what to write next, "for sympathy."

He withdrew himself mentally from the room and all the small noises in it. Aidan was lost in his stories for two hours, and one on browsing aimlessly.

Dean could honestly say he'd never seen Aidan focus so intently on anything before. Dean spoke to him twice passing through the living room during that time, but he doubted Aidan heard him. It reminded him all too eerily of the fugues Richard would fall into when he was really into his writing. And, to be fair, Dean was equally guilty of losing himself in his art. He liked seeing it on Aidan. Aidan had this adorable habit of twirling his hair when he was thinking. 

The sound of laptop keys clacking was soothing to Dean. It reminded him of happier times. He cleaned the kitchen from top to bottom. He'd even put one of Richard's CDs of big band music on while he did it, playing softly so that it wouldn't disturb Aidan. He felt good; he felt as if things might even be okay.


	19. Who Knew?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aidan comes home after spending the night with Lee.

The time to leave the house for Aidan's appointment came too quickly. Aidan did not want to get up and leave the comfort of the afternoon. He had looked up several locations to take Lee and was ready to spend the evening with him, but at the same time he liked the living room and the laid-back mood that it provided.

Stretching with care, he shut his laptop and looked up at Dean for his ride.

Dean was wearing a denim jacket and had his car keys in his hand. "You got a lot of writing done," the blond observed, handing Aidan his own coat. "I've seen that look before."

Aidan turned him a mystified smile. "That look?" He slipped into his jacket in the hallway, looking over his shoulder at Dean. Time had flown, and his second date with Lee was fast approaching, the idea of which gave him a healthy glow.

"It's a proud look, a tired one," Dean explained. "And happy. You look very happy."

\- - - - -

The clinic was crowded, and despite Aidan having an appointment, they were half an hour late in calling him in to be seen.

"What I can't understand," Dr. Lily, who looked exhausted herself, told Aidan, putting her cold stethoscope against his back to listen to his lungs, "is why you didn't go see your specialist. A cold this soon after a heart transplant is a serious concern."

Nearly groaning aloud and not wanting to explain it all again, Aidan shrugged. "I thought it wouldn't be that bad." He looked around the office when she performed several checkups, and winced when she pressed the cool metal of the stethoscope against his chest to listen to his heart. "My friend said it could be hay fever, that I'd need pills every day to subdue it. What if my donor had hay fever? Is that possible?"

"I'm going to be honest with you, Aidan," Dr. Lily moved the stethoscope to his chest and listened for a moment. "I know very little about the field of transplants. I've only been a proper physician for a year and I've mostly treated minor problems. I can tell you that you are the sixth person I've seen today with these symptoms, and I'm going to tell you what I've told each of them. They are allergy symptoms. No doubt pollen, as spring is here. I'd prescribe you something over the counter to handily treat them, but not without consulting your transplant physician first. No doubt you're on a regimen of anti-rejection drugs and the like. He is the best person to advise you. But my diagnosis stands. Now, if you'd give me the name of your heart specialist, I'll gladly call him..."

Of course. Dean was going to tell him, _I told you so_. "Dr. Pace," Aidan supplied, wincing when he realized that with some bad luck on his side, he was going to be on meds for long periods of time. Just when he was getting less pills to take every day.

"I doubt any of the drugs you're taking now will interfere with an over the counter allergy medication," Dr. Lily told him when Aidan still looked reluctant. "It's just a precaution. There might be something about your medical history that only Dr. Pace would know. Do you have a phone number for him?"

"He uh—yeah, I think so." He dug out his phone, searched for Lee but refused to let her see that he had saved him as _Handsome heart doctor_ , quoting the number instead. "He's American," he added pointlessly.

Dr. Lily took out her phone and dialed the number. This fellow, Aidan Turner, seemed to be quite healthy despite his recent ordeal. She felt confident that his developing allergies wouldn't be a problem.

"Is this Dr. Pace?" she asked when he picked up on the second ring.

"Speaking," Lee replied, though he was suspicious of the private number. "How can I help you?"

"This is Dr. Evangeline Lily, at the Piccadilly Street Clinic. I have a patient here of yours, Aidan Turner?"

Lee straightened his back and looked at his current patient apologetically. "I'm sorry, it's about another patient," he explained quickly, his hand on the receiver, then returned to Dr. Lily. "I see. Is he doing fine? What can I do?"

\- - - - - 

"So," Lee sat forward in his chair at Jamie's Italian Restaurant, "whatever possessed you to not come to me with your health problems?"

The doctor had been very quiet on the taxi ride over. Aidan had been sufficiently contrite. The symptoms were already decreasing, having taken one of his new pills before Lee showed up.

Lee took a long sip of his wine and watched Aidan intently for his answer.

"You too, huh?" Aidan spoke with a small voice. "You're my doctor, and we're dating. I had hoped not to have to explain that it's best nobody at the hospital found out we're seeing each other off work." He twirled some spaghetti around his fork. The eagerness with which he had been looking forward to the date was wearing off after the constant barrage of opinions from the people around him. "For your sake."

"I speak at the Brompton, and I consult," Lee told him, "but I don't owe them an explanation for my personal life. I don't even live here," he huffed. "Look, I'm sorry. When I got that call, well, it froze my blood. I was terrified something happened to you."

Aidan snorted. "Hay fever. Of all things I've gotten passed down to me, it's the lamest condition. Sorry. Apparently everyone thinks I'm an idiot who should have asked you. It's just, I'm technically your patient. You know things about me that any ordinary date wouldn't, and I thought that maybe, because whoever wrote the rules might have imagined how that might put us at unequal levels, it'd get you into trouble if people found out. Plus, us having dinner could theoretically be considered following your council. I'm creating new memories." This brought out a smile from Aidan again. "Enough about that. How was your day?"

Lee took a dinner roll from the basket on the table and ripped off a piece. "The usual. I presented a case study, learned about a new stent, saw some patients...." His blue eyes looked concerned. "Look, I don't care if I'm back in the States, Aidan. Please, call me. For anything. But especially for things like this."

It hadn't occurred to Aidan until then that Lee's biggest concern was not what others thought of them and the possibility that he could lose his job if word got out, but rather the lack of trust Aidan had unwittingly demonstrated. He felt bad about it—enough to lose interest in the food in front of him, which he stopped pushing around on the plate. "Sorry," he said again. "I'll call you. I will." In an attempt to distract himself from the topic and share more of himself with Lee, he began, "I wrote a lot today. Normally I write in my room, but I sat down in the living room today. That was nice. A lot of inspiration came just from changing the view."

"Maybe Richard liked to write in the living room," Lee posited. Then, he asked, "Are you still having the dreams?" 

Aidan nodded. "I had one yesterday. They're going to keep coming, aren't they? You said, cells multiply."

"I didn't mean to scare you by saying that," Lee told him. "Cells multiply, yes. But It's not like Richard's cells are going to take over your body and mind. You will always be _you_."

"And I'll continue to have the dreams," Aidan said glumly.

"Maybe," Lee reached over and patted his hand. "Maybe not. Are they so awful? Those dreams?"

"I'm sure you've guessed by now what they're about," said Aidan. Oddly enough though, labelling them as awful made him feel bad. What Richard and Dean had had—it had been beautiful.

"Yes," Lee nodded. "So you're dreaming about sex, with your handsome, accomplished housemate. I ask again, is that so awful?"

Aidan frowned. "I'm not the one having sex with him. Richard is." What did Lee want him to say? His spaghetti turning cold, he instead took a gulp from his wine. "It's uncomfortable. It's supposed to be private, and it's very distracting when I recall those dreams when I'm talking to," and he quoted, "my handsome, accomplished housemate."

"It's obvious from the way you've been talking about him—about _Dean_ —that you two are getting along much better," Lee dipped a piece of bread into a patch of seasoned oil and took a small bite. "How much of that is your own doing, d'you suppose," he said around the morsel," and how much is due to the influence of Richard?"

The direction the subject was taking rubbed Aidan the wrong way. It was like he stood accused for having the dreams he had, and for becoming better friends with Dean. They shared a house; it was either that or one of them moving out, and Aidan didn't think anything was wrong with accepting the new side of Dean he had come to see as a nice one. "We _are_ getting along better," he said. "Which isn't hard, considering how much we didn't get along at first. Or are you suggesting there's more to the dreams?"

"No, no of course not," Lee fiddled with his napkin. "It's just fascinating to me. The percentage of people who receive transplants from someone they know is low, and so is the number of those who report residual memories. One woman could speak and understand Russian after her kidney transplant. I read of another man who became a gifted horticulturist—and he had never worked with plants in his life prior to getting a new heart. It would seem to me that you have inherited some things from Richard. The writing you've been doing; it might be only the tip of the iceberg."

"I write my own words, Lee." The more Aidan heard, the more he feared he was here because Lee found his case _fascinating_ —which meant he'd ultimately be here as a patient, not as a man on a date in hopes of appealing as a potential boyfriend. He was waiting for a sign that proved his fears wrong. "I'm writing more than I have in a long time, but that could just be because I haven't had oceans of time like this before. So, tell me, is there something you still really want to see in London?"

"Of the sights?" Lee smiled and shook his head. "No. I'm doing exactly what I want to do. Right here, right now. What about you, Aidan? Is there anything you'd like me to see before I leave?" He raised his eyebrows, aware the question had several layers of meaning.

"Well, you'd probably like the South Wharf," Aidan heard himself saying, though his heart wasn't in it. He had lost his appetite and he was beginning to lose his energy reserves. It suddenly didn't seem so appealing to challenge Lee with a witty answer.

"I might," Lee immediately reached for the bill when it came. "Or, I might enjoy having you come back to my hotel room."

Aidan sensed his jaw growing slack. For someone who had given him little reason to think that such a thing was even in the cards, he was very straightforward. And rather more forward than Aidan liked. They had yet to kiss, and here Lee sounded like he was proposing a long night with little sleep. 

It wasn't romantic, but at least it made him feel more desired than he had felt all night. Aidan inclined his head. "Let's go for a walk and see where it takes us. The night is young."

"Very well, if you're feeling up for it," Lee signed his name with a flourish on the bill and snapped shut the leather folder containing the receipt. "Spring's in the air. Why not?"

\- - - - -

The morning clock read 8:47 when the front door creaked open, and a lonely silhouette sneaked inside. With attention to silence, he padded over to the coat rack, discarded his jacket, and ran a hand through his hair.

Aidan sighed. Why was he sneaking into his own house?

He stretched his toes and rubbed his eyes. It was too early, and he could really do with another shower.

Dean came from the kitchen, purpose to his step. "Thank god," he whispered. "You should have texted me you were staying out all night. I was worried about you." His eyes studied Aidan's mussed hair, the state of his clothing. "I guess all my concern was unjustified. You had fun." It was a statement, not a question.

The tell-tale smile that should have crossed Aidan's face then, didn't come. Instead Aidan looked very, very tired. "Sorry. I didn't mean—"

He didn't finish the sentence. There were several things he hadn't meant, and he didn't know where to start. So Aidan tried to brush it off. "Morning, anyway. If you don't mind, I'd like to go straight to bed. Sorry again."

"I'm sorry too," Dean said softly. "I hadn't meant to dampen your fun. Of course you have a life. God... I sound like such a loser. You couldn't have been with a safer person. I mean, he's your doctor."

Aidan could smell that Dean had made breakfast of some sort. 

"You do look tired," Dean admitted. "Get some rest, all right?"

Aidan nodded. "Right." There was no spark in his eyes, but before Dean could ask about it, Aidan had pushed forward, found his bedroom and shut the door. The springs creaked when he let himself fall down. Some sleep, he thought. That would patch him right back up. He'd take one of Richard's dreams over staying awake.

Dean slunk to the kitchen. That had gone horribly. He'd meant to meet Aidan with concern and welcome. Instead, he'd wound up acting like a jealous lover. He groaned, turning off the oven and setting the frittata he'd made out to cool before wrapping it in foil.

Had Aidan's date gone badly? And if so, why did he stay out all night? Dean knew he'd probably never ask Aidan those questions. All he knew for certain was that he didn't like the defeated look on Aidan's face.

_God, what's the matter with me?_ he berated himself, pouring another cup of coffee. 

It was noon before Aidan made his second appearance. He was still puffy-eyed, and the shower hadn't done his mood a lot of good. But what was the most striking was that he didn't take out his phone as soon as he sat down in the kitchen for a quick check.

Leftover frittata wrapped and labeled for him rippled a small chuckle. Aidan was an idiot. Life wasn't that bad, even though he had generously fucked up and then proceeded to sneak out before first light like a coward. He had probably broken someone's heart.

"Don't do that again," he muttered to himself.

A note on the kitchen island in Dean's handwriting said, _Sorry I was such a knob this morning. I am seeing my agent at noon for lunch. I'm headed to group after. Maybe we can play with the pasta machine tonight? — D_

On the same piece of notebook paper, Dean had drawn a pasta machine, a small stick figure of himself being fed into the dough hopper, and a figure that could have only been Aidan turning the handle.

Aidan warily stared at the drawing—even stick figures looked artsy with Dean—before he got up and fetched his phone. _Sure, we'll play with the pasta machine tonight,_ he texted. _Tell your agent to fetch a good price for Osiris._

Of course, he had to pass by four missed calls and some ten messages to send it, which in the end had him reply to the last with a short text message. _I'm sorry. You're a good guy. I thought I wanted this,_ and then switch his phone off for what would come next. 

Lee read Aidan's text with the detached grace of a man who had other things to do. And he did. He had four patients to see, and a room full of medical students to address. He couldn't allow himself to get hung up on the fact that Aidan's mind seemed to be all over the map while Lee was worshiping his body. 

It had been a fun couple of days, at least. Lee allowed himself to smile at the memory of the dates. But, in the end, dating a patient was a mistake. He was saddened, but not surprised. He only hoped that things weren't too weird next time they saw one another. 

Sighing sadly, he pocketed his cell phone and picked up the case file of his next patient.

\- - - - - 

Cate wasn't pleased with Dean's news about slowing down with his art. In the end, he promised her the next in the series, _Ra_ , sometime in the fall.

____Dean's heart felt lighter without the pressure of a deadline hanging over his head._ _ _ _

____When he came home, he found Aidan on the couch with a blanket and a show on television. "Oh, hey," he said. "How was your lunch?"_ _ _ _

____"Delicious," Dean patted his stomach. "I had a giant cobb salad. Tasted like summer," he added, eyeing Aidan up and down. "Did you get some rest? You looked knackered this morning."_ _ _ _

____"Still knackered," Aidan smiled wryly. "Coffee helped. Sorry about this morning. You weren't a knob. The frittata was good."_ _ _ _

____"I'm glad you had a good time," Dean told him, hefting a bag of groceries. "You've earned it."_ _ _ _

____"Yeah, a good time," Aidan snorted. "But kind of not really good."_ _ _ _

____"Oh?" Dean asked. "Listen, I need to get these to the kitchen. I brought ice cream. Want some?"_ _ _ _

____Hopeful eyes looked up at him. "Walnut?"_ _ _ _

____"For you, yeah," Dean grinned. "Sea salted caramel for me. C'mon," he jerked his head in the direction of the kitchen._ _ _ _

____Aidan wriggled his toes outside the blanket. "I'm comfortable here?" he tried. He was not too lazy to get up, he was just trying his luck, hoping that Dean and the containers of ice cream would join him there._ _ _ _

____Dean grinned. "I'll be back as soon as I put the groceries away."_ _ _ _

____Five minutes later he returned with the ice cream and two spoons. "What are we watching?" he asked, wiggling to make space for himself next to Aidan's feet._ _ _ _

____"Musketeers. BBC production. It's fun. They can cast me for this one all right." The walnut ice cream was taken from Dean's hands, as was one of the spoons. "Didn't feel like writing today, and I still had to see this one. I hope you've felt more productive."_ _ _ _

____"I like this show," Dean told him. What he didn't tell Aidan was that he thought the actor playing Athos was hot in a brooding way. "This would be a fun role for you. Not sure all that horseback riding would be wise right now, though." He popped the lid off his ice cream, sniffing the contents. "What do you like most about the show?"_ _ _ _

____Aidan curled himself further up into the couch. "The comedy. The pace, I think. And the fact that there's no dull character around." He screwed the container open. "This is making me feel very American," he admitted. "Having ice cream in winter. I bet you got a discount on it. Who buys ice cream in winter?"_ _ _ _

____"It's spring, technically," Dean licked the ice cream from his spoon and moaned sinfully. "Oh, man."_ _ _ _

____"It's still cold," Aidan pointed out. "But then I bet Richard bought you ice cream a lot, if that is how you generally respond to it."_ _ _ _

____Dean chuckled, not allowing Aidan to embarrass him this time. "I haven't had any since last summer," Dean told him. "There was a back-to-school ice cream social for the professors and students. Richard dragged me along. It was a beautiful day," he recalled, eyes distant, clearly seeing something Aidan was not. "I got a craving for it after lunch today."_ _ _ _

____Maybe, Aidan thought, one of his dreams would eventually show him that memory. He took another mouthful while he watched Dean light up. Things were changing. Not so long ago, mentioning Richard would have brought him to tears._ _ _ _

____Aidan still missed Richard every day, but lately he too could enjoy a pleasant memory again. The bittersweet aftertaste would probably always remain._ _ _ _

____"Thanks for bringing two," said he at length. I don't think I'll be seeing Lee again."_ _ _ _

____"I didn't want to ask you about it," Dean replied thoughtfully, "but you didn't quite seem like yourself this morning. Not as compatible as you thought?"_ _ _ _

____Aidan's eyes grew distant. "Not as compatible as I hoped. It was just... odd. We were having dinner, and he kept talking about my heart, how it's so _fascinating_ , and whether I was still having the dreams. I was his patient, Dean. We were having pasta and he was talking to his patient. But then he asked if I wanted to come back to his hotel room, so I thought, maybe not one hundred percent his patient." Aidan surprised himself with how badly he needed to get the events off his chest. "We spent some time walking around, and that was nice, so I figured I'd agree. Isn't it strange when the first time you kiss is seconds before he starts undressing you? I don't know. And then we were in his bed, and all I could think about was that it wasn't _right_. I was having sex with a gorgeous, accomplished—and very attentive—man, and it didn't feel right."_ _ _ _

____He scooped a spoonful of ice from his tub and smiled sadly. "It was empty sex, and I woke up feeling terrible. So I snuck out and I've been avoiding his messages since. I hope you didn't text me. My phone's off."_ _ _ _

____"I did," Dean confessed, nudging his leg, "twice. But I got a clue around 1 a.m." Dean was quiet for a bit, pretending to watch the screen, but thinking about Aidan and Lee Pace._ _ _ _

____"I'm sorry," Dean said quietly, at length. "He was really cute, nice and successful," he set aside his ice cream. "But it had to be weird, right? I mean, the guy had his hand inside your chest cavity."_ _ _ _

____Aidan blinked at the funny way of describing it, then burst into a wide smile. "His hand in my chest cavity. Cute. Well, yes, but I was very much knocked out at the time. I don't mind that. What was weird was that it felt more like I was his test subject than his date. Anyway," he reached for Dean's ice cream casually, "at least it's good to know I can have sex again."_ _ _ _

____Dean tried not to blush, but failed miserably. "Yes," he offered up his ice cream willingly. "It gives the rest of us hope as well then, I suppose."_ _ _ _

____"Just one will do," Aidan commented between two bites. "Doesn't have to be a lot of people."_ _ _ _

____Dean nodded. "I get that." More silence followed, then he said, "We've been talking about it, in group. How soon is too soon to starting dating again? One of the guys... he had a girlfriend while his wife was dying of cancer. She was the hospice nurse. Can you imagine that?"_ _ _ _

____Clearly opinionated, Aidan scowled. "Could have waited a few months for decency's sake. But I don't know. I guess when you feel ready or when you meet someone. Richard wouldn't want you to give up on what life has to offer. If you could ask him, he'd probably just tell you to hold him in a special place and remember him."_ _ _ _

____"I didn't get it either," Dean looked longingly at the fireplace, wishing he had an excuse to light it. "But his wife was sick for three years. For the last couple of months she was drugged to the gills. He had mourned for so long, even before she finally died. Once she was gone, it was a blessing. It wasn't that way for me. For _us_ ," he corrected. "I know that Richard would want me to find someone else. He told me, in a letter he left with Ian. But even thinking about it still feels like betrayal, you know?"_ _ _ _

____Aidan understood, though he found it a pity. "That means you're not ready. There's nothing wrong with that."_ _ _ _

____Dean chuckled. "Ah, well. I think my body is ready, but my mind has issues."_ _ _ _

____Aidan watched him. Dean must miss it. He nudged the blond with his foot and put the ice cream away, having had quite enough. "Sorry. I think telling you about my failed dates and having those dreams doesn't make it easier. Have you ever considered listening only to your body for a while? I know it's probably not your thing, but sounds to me like a roll in the sack with no strings attached is just what you need."_ _ _ _

____Dean's eyes met his, and there was no humor in them. "You're right about that," he said without hesitation. "Right about both, I'm afraid. I actually enjoy being in love. I might be looking forward to finding that again more than I am about finding someone to have sex with. I've been going through this workbook we got in group and it's taught me a lot of things about myself that I never realized before."_ _ _ _

____"Mh." Aidan tucked his feet under him and leaned his side against the couch to face Dean. He didn't know how Dean had made him forget about the memories of the date the night before so quickly, but apparently ice cream—currently melting; one of them had to get up in a bit—and company, were magic. "Care to tell me? Or is it private?"_ _ _ _

____"Well," Dean began, "I've learned that I have trust issues, and abandonment issues—these spring from my childhood. My parents were less than stellar. But I've also learned that, as an adult, I have a choice not to turn into them," he smiled. "It takes me awhile to warm up to people and let them in," Dean told him, "but when I do, it's lasting."_ _ _ _

____Aidan nodded encouragingly, listening with attention while he was curled comfortably against the back of the couch. "Always be honest with yourself," he said. "If you pretend to be someone you're not for other people's sake, you give them power over you. I'm glad you sought out that group."_ _ _ _

____"I wasn't going to," Dean confided. "I was going to try to _power through_ , you know? That didn't work out well. It turns out that grief, like any other chore, is easier to handle when it's shared. I'm glad you've been here, Aidan. I really, really am. I haven't told you that much. But I am."_ _ _ _

____"Likewise," Aidan softly smiled. "You took care of me, and you probably did it because of Richard, but you turned out to be a good friend. Who knew? I'm happy you didn't find another place to live yet. It would have been much harder for me here without you."_ _ _ _

____He patted Dean on the knee. "Just a minute. Ice cream's about to melt. Don't go anywhere."_ _ _ _

____"Who knew?" Dean whispered into the empty air while Aidan put away what was left of the ice cream and put the spoons in the sink._ _ _ _

_What the hell was happening?_


	20. The Craziest Thing Ever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Aidan admit that they have feelings towards one another. They go on a double date with Adam and his new boyfriend.

In less than a minute, Aidan reclaimed his spot on the couch and quickly rubbed a dab of melted ice cream on his hand off onto his jeans. The television continued broadcasting the paused image of a dust cloud behind a running horse. "This is a much better evening than yesterday," confessed he. "So, tell me more about your group?"

"I probably shouldn't," Dean told him. " _What happens at group, stays at group._ That's sort of our motto. Well, what we talk about stays there. What we learn comes with us. I shouldn't have talked about Elijah and his nurse. It's just ordinary people who have lost their spouses, is all. Mostly younger. I think it's organized that way so that we feel more willing to share. It took me awhile to open up."

"You're doing good. I'm proud of you."

Aidan snapped his mouth shut. Oh, he was certainly proud of Dean, but more than a little that pride came from remembering Dean as he had been around Richard. Would it be painful to tell that part of the pride Aidan felt was founded on Richard's feelings?

Aidan shook it off. It didn't matter. "You look better lately, anyway. You smile more. Whatever happens at group, it's working."

"Well, to be fair, it's more than just group," Dean slipped his socked feet under the afghan Aidan had discarded. "I finished _Osiris,_ which had been hanging over me for some time. And there's our trip to St. Ives to look forward to. You're still coming, right?"

"You bet I am." Aidan looked at Dean, and bit his lip. "What do you want to do with his ashes? He'd—he'd like the ocean, I think."

"That's my plan," Dean nodded. "It's what he asked for. I think maybe at night, when there aren't so many people around."

"He loved the sun, though. But thank you. Can I be there when you do? I'd like—" 

No other word could be said, or Aidan would burst into tears.

"I ... I hadn't thought about it. Others being around when I...." Dean closed down suddenly. "Can we talk about something else?"

Aidan inclined his head, twice. "...Pasta machine? Or is it a really bad timing to be asking about that?"

"Yes," Dean smiled. brightened. "Yes, please, yes. Help me put that damn machine together. You said you had an aunt with one like it?"

"Very much. But I suggest we ask Google to be safe just the same." Equally glad to be off the subject of Richard's ashes, Aidan rubbed his eyes quickly and got up. "Spaghetti? I didn't finish mine yesterday, a rematch is in order."

"I'll make a deal with you," Dean spoke as he folded the afghan and lay it over the arm of the sofa. "Whichever pasta form you successfully attach to the machine first—one that works—that's what kind of pasta I'm making first. Choose wisely, young Jedi."

"Then we start with tagliatelle; fair enough." Aidan's eyes sparkled, then he was off. Dean found him in the kitchen, studying the unpacked device with interest, his laptop starting up. "Where have you got the dough? Fridge?"

Dean wrinkled his forehead. "I—I hadn't made any yet. I thought you might be out again tonight. I told you, I was saving this for a night we were both home. It's simple enough to whip up a batch. But," he groaned and rubbed his stomach. "I'm bloated. I can't even think about food right now. How about a nap?" he grinned.

"...No, Dean. Just no. You promised me pasta maker, and I'm actually famished. That's not fair."

"You're _famished?_ " Dean grinned, puzzled. "You just polished off a pint of ice cream, plus some of mine. And you ate some leftover frittata. I guess it's safe to say you're getting healthier." He reached forward, as if to lay a hand over Aidan's stomach, then pulled it back at the last moment. "I'm sorry. Sometimes I forget who I'm talking to."

"You're talking to me," Aidan shrugged, now leaving the pasta machine alone because apparently, they weren't doing this tonight. "And I don't mind you saying it. That frittata was finished hours ago, I'll have you know, and pasta would have taken us at least forty-five minutes to finish. Are you scared I'll figure it out in five minutes and make you look stupid?" he teased, a brow quirking.

"Scared? No," Dean chuckled. "But I always feel stupid around you, so that's nothing new."

That took Aidan aback. "Seriously? Why?"

"Well, because you're one of those guys who's good looking and confident," Dean told him, rearranging his spice rack for no obvious reason, "and you make me nervous."

"Do I intimidate you?" Aidan had not expected those words from Dean, and they hurt and saddened him. Hadn't they been good together? More than good, if he had to be honest—Aidan had found himself quite happy in Dean's presence lately. And yet Dean seemed to feel there was still a wall between them. "I'm... I'm sorry."

"No... it's not that you're intimidating," Dean tried to set his mind at ease. "You're just so sure of yourself, and so handsome and just plain unflappable. Don't think I haven't noticed how much it pleases you to get me to blush. It doesn't take much. You know it, and you love it." Dean wasn't being malicious. He took a step closer to Aidan. "Don't you?"

Aidan was so confused. "Well, yeah. Because it's cute. It's not like I want to make you feel bad about yourself. Stop telling me I'm handsome, please. It's okay when you're painting and it's the artist in you speaking, but you're saying far too often."

Dean took another step towards him. "I'm not saying it as an artist. I'm saying it as a person. As a man," he studied Aidan's face, caught in a shaft of afternoon sunlight. "Your eyes... they have flecks of gold in them. I never noticed that before."

"...I make you nervous because you like me." Aidan stared at Dean, then at the floor. He hadn't wanted to say that conclusion out loud—he had only just figured it out, really. "But you're not ready for that. You just said it. Oh god, Dean, tell me I'm reading into this all wrong. You know me. You know how these things always go wrong with me."

Predictably, Dean suddenly felt like an idiot. Hadn't Aidan just told him that Dean needed to stop thinking so much and let his body just do what it wanted?

"You have always made me nervous," Dean told him truthfully. "Lately it's for a different reason."

_You like him because he's the only person here. He's not Richard. He never will be._

"I don't know what I was thinking," Dean said, deflating. "I'm talking out of my head, I guess."

"Dean..." Aidan sighed, shifting uncomfortably. His heart was beating hard, like a lot depended on him, although there was a hopeful spark that twisted his gut nonetheless. "I want a _partner_. I want someone who wants me for me. Someone I can make it past four months with. You're a sweetheart, and you're very handsome," and god knew how many times Aidan had dreamed about him, "but I can't lose you as a friend if you're not ready for more."

Dean slipped onto one of the stools by the kitchen island. "In spite of myself, I've enjoyed living with you, Aidan. And being your friend wasn't nearly as hard as I thought it would be. I talked about in group about how I've become dependent on you being here. It's why I freaked out when you didn't come home last night. It's stupid, and it's less than you deserve. So, we will stay friends, of course," Dean concluded. "We will be friends. Because it's what you need from me, and it's what I need from you. Right?"

Aidan took a seat beside him. He smiled, sadness around the corners of his eyes. "I'd much rather you ask me to wait, if only a couple of months. Don't depend on me, Dean. You know you can live here for as long as you want. It doesn't feel like a place I should want to own for myself, anyway. Just... be you. Live _your_ life. I'm going to be here for a while anyway."

"It makes you uncomfortable, doesn't it?" Dean wondered. "Having someone depend on you? Or are you just not used to it? You need to get used to it," Dean told him. "Because I do. I depend on you. Maybe it's just for a warm body to watch TV with, or someone to taste what I made in cooking class. Maybe it's for something I can't even explain."

A mouth pressed softly against his, a single kiss placed before Aidan pulled away and opened his eyes at only a few inches. He wanted to run away, to laugh and to kiss him again all in the same breath. "Tell me to wait."

"Just," Dean reached out and squeezed his hand, trying to keep him from wandering too far, "just be patient with me. I'm not that guy you've been dreaming about. _That_ guy—you're seeing him through Richard's eyes. I want you to see me through your eyes, Aidan."

Aidan smiled and leaned forward, this time to whisper in Dean's ear, "I've had the pleasure, once or twice." It continued to amuse him just how flustered Dean could get, how easily, but this time he found himself burning up as well. When back at a respectable distance, he smoothed out his confession with a quieter one. "A warm body to watch TV with, or to be a guinea pig for your food, that's all I want."

"It's not all I want. Not really," Dean told him. "Richard was good to me. I know what a good, loving relationship is like. That's what I want. But you're right. I'm not ready. If I were ready, I'd know, right?"

"You'd know," nodded Aidan. "It's not all I want either, but it's something nobody's been able to offer me so far. Which means you're very much worth the risk." He was grinning broadly, not unlike a sixteen-year-old. "You're cute."

Dean chuckled nervously. "I feel just the opposite. I feel like a dork at a high school dance who just doesn't fit in."

"Look around, Dean. I'm the only one here. We've got the place to ourselves, and there's only one person I'm looking at." That reminded Aidan, and he cringed. "So, so sorry about yesterday. I thought you were off the market, you know."

"You would have been a fool to pass up a date with Dr. Pace," Dean told him. "Shit, I would have gone out with him."

Aidan laughed. It was a sound that brightened the intensity between them. "Yeah, I would have liked that to have gone down differently. He _is_ good-looking. And nice. But you've got that in common with him, and I'm not your patient, and unlike him, you improve over time. Besides," he added, "I got to kiss you and I know I want to do it again."

Dean's lips had been tingling since Aidan's had brushed over them moments before. "That was hardly a proper kiss," he said. "Well, I suppose it might have been, if I were your elderly aunt...."

"That," Aidan replied confidently, "was a promise. You come back when you're ready for more." That, and he wanted to put some time between the debacle that had been a second date with Lee, and something that could very well be _it_. Aidan knew he had to mention eventually that, in the case that it didn't work out, he'd still want them to try and be friends, the way Adam and Dean had managed to remain friends. Dean's presence was important in Aidan's life. But that was something left for later.

More than a little disappointed that Aidan had backed down from his challenge, Dean sat forward on the stool and suggested, "What if we tried to go out on a date? Dinner, movie... whatever. Isn't that what you do when you're deciding whether you like someone?" he asked, although he knew full well the answer. "Granted, it's been sixteen years since my last date, so I'm a bit rusty. But, what do you say?"

"I know I like you." Aidan had a strong urge to kiss him again, if only a nip on the nose. "I've had enough dinner dates to know most of it consists of trying to appear interesting. Dean, we can do all those things, but it won't make me change my mind about this. I'm waiting until you're ready. That's really all there is to it. So when you decide you want me to kiss you again, you tell me."

Dean's heart swelled to the point where he felt it might push his ribs outward and break them. He inhaled a long, slow deep breath. He smelled the scent of home—the home he had made with Richard. But Richard was no longer here. Richard would not have wanted him to deprive himself of happiness; more than anything he would have wanted Dean and Aidan to get along.

_But this? Would he, in his wildest dreams, have wanted this?_

"This is crazy, Aidan," Dean whispered. "It's the craziest thing ever."

"I know." The other man looked quite small when he said it. "Let's figure out whether it's a good or bad kind of crazy, all right? I think I'll need some time alone, anyway, but are you okay with watching some TV later?"

"I'll still need help putting this damn machine together," Dean poked at the pasta machine box. "How about we do that? Say, around six?" His body was thrumming with a strange energy, like a hive of bees had been set loose under his skin.

"Will you make dough?" Christ, Aidan thought to himself, this was going to be difficult. He was so used to things proceeding fast, and yet here he had offered to wait for he knew not how long, while he wanted nothing more than to discover what kissing Dean the right way was like. He got up, lingered at the door post, and continued to follow Dean around with his eyes until he told himself to stop.

Dean could feel Aidan's eyes on him. The dark, intense orbs scorched, and it would have been effortless to run to him. But he didn't. He couldn't. Aidan was right. It was too soon, and their new found friendship so tenuous.

"Hey..." Dean called after him. "Wait..."

However, Aidan didn't make him wait long, equally hopeless. True, he had only just been opened his eyes that the cute best friend he had unexpectedly ended up with, turned out to be available, but he was eager to see where it took them. "Yes?"

Dean came to him then, wrapping his arms carefully but firmly around Aidan's waist, and hugged him. "I'm so glad you're here, Aidan," he lay his head on Aidan's shoulder and tightened the hug. He breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of his housemate. "I really mean it. You're not just a warm body."

Arms wrapped around him in reply, Aidan resting his chin on Dean's head. It was nice, holding him like this. It also gave him a strong glimpse of what it would be like if their bodies were as close as this for other purposes. "You're not either. Thanks, for having faith enough in me to tell me. I can be patient."

If a few months ago, anyone would have told him of this moment, he would have laughed. Aidan wasn't laughing now. He had spent enough time suppressing something because of Richard and Dean's love for his best friend, to know that though he had to get used to the idea that things were possible now, he undeniably wanted it.

\- - - - - 

Three days later, Jimmy delivered the massive frame that would display Richard's record albums. It was tall enough to cover one wall of the living room, and Jimmy had to bring it into the house in six sections.

"What you want to do," Jimmy explained to Dean, "is slide a record case into the groove, like this," he demonstrated with a J. Geils Band album. "Then you flip down this tiny metal placeholder, so it won't slip out. Four in each section. When you've filled them, I'll assemble and hang it. Say, Saturday? That work for you?"

"It's perfect," Dean said, running his finger over the natural wood finish. "It's exactly how I imagined it."

"It'll look really cool on that wall over there," Jimmy indicated the wall that ran from the foyer to the kitchen. "While I was working on it, three other people ordered one when I told them what it was. I think you've created a monster, Deano. I'm going to have to give you ten percent of sales. Intellectual property rights, or something."

Dean reached out to shake his hand, but Jimmy turned it into a hug instead. 

"Thanks, Jimmy," Dean patted him on the back. "I love it. Rich would have loved it too."

"It looks great there," Adam replied from the couch, where he’d retreated in an attempt to avoid demotion to a mover of the heavy frames. "It's almost a pity it's not going to stay there. Which records are you going to put in? The cheesy ones you and him used to dance to?"

"They weren't cheesy," Dean castigated him. "They were the classics. I count twenty-four spaces. I've already picked out sixteen records. I'm sure I can come up with eight more."

Jimmy slipped off to use the bathroom and Dean sat down next to Adam. "You and Jimmy seem pretty chummy.... what's up with that?"

Adam remained casual when he raised a brow and asked, "What's up with it?" He looked the collection up and down, then glanced in the direction of the bathroom, all before whispering, "Want to know how many times I delayed him while he was working on that?"

"Hah!" Dean exclaimed. "I knew it! Don't think I didn't notice you two eyeing each other up at the card party. I'm so happy for you, Adam." Dean patted his leg. "He's a catch."

"It's nothing official though," Adam gave him the eye. "We're just having fun. Lots of it, and all the time. Though I think it's fairly exclusive." He sipped his coffee like a saint. "So the night of cards... thanks for that. When are you joining the club again?"

At this question, Dean sat forward on the couch. "I should look through the records, while I'm inspired," he said instead.

"You _have_ joined the club! Oh my god, Dean, what? And you didn't think to tell me?"

Did Dean dare tell Adam about what might possibly be happening between him and Aidan? Apparently now he had no choice.

"Well, sort of," Dean relaxed a bit. "I suppose you could say I'm seeing someone."

"When?" Now that Adam knew, there was no stopping them—until Jimmy returned from the bathroom and looked between them. "You're almost out of toilet paper."

"I have more in the pantry," Dean assured him. "I'll fill it up after you guys leave. Unless I can talk you into staying? Maybe we could all go get dinner? It's the least I could do for all your hard work."

"Oh, dinner for four!" Adam piped up at once, disappointed for once that Jimmy had made it back so fast. "That sounds lovely. I'm hungry just thinking about food." He grinned at Dean, who wasn't getting off the hook this easily.

"Yes, four," Dean reinforced. "Aidan will be coming with us."

Adam stared at him, while Jimmy failed to understand the commotion. "Aidan? Seriously?"

"Well of course," Jimmy said, "who else?"

"He went to see someone about an audition," Dean told them, "but I expect him home soon. Do you guys want to wait around? I can pour us some drinks."

Adam nodded at once. He made himself comfortable, and dragged Jimmy down to sit next to him. "You have to tell me everything," he admonished. "Jimmy here can keep a secret."

Dean went to the kitchen, where he had a few beers in the refrigerator. While he was out there, he gave thought to what he was about to tell Adam. Was he ready to share this information? Would Aidan want people to know?

"Here you go, mates," he handed each of them an opened beer and slipped into his favorite armchair. "So," he said casually, throwing his legs over one of the arm rests, "Aidan and I have decided to start dating."

"And?"

"And, they're dating," Jimmy laughed. "That's great, mate!"

"Yeah, but _how did it happen_? I mean, this is Aidan we're talking about. You were close to hating him a few months ago. Is he good? Did he make a move on you?"

"It just... happened," Dean shrugged. "We've spent time together. We got along. We got on each other's nerves. We became friends. And—recently—we've talked about becoming _more_. Just like that." Dean smiled. "No one is more surprised than me."

Adam sat grinning in his seat. " Is he any good?" His eyes twinkled, while Jimmy hit him in the shoulder with a laugh. Not that it diminished Adam's natural curiosity any.

"Well, nothing has _happened_ yet," Dean told them. "We're taking it slowly. He is still healing, and so am I. It's just, you know, hanging out. We hug and stuff. Nothing big. Not yet." Dean took a long swig of his beer. "Neither of us wants it to be something we regret."

Adam huffed. "Pity. But you kissed?" He didn't want to say it out loud, but this was Aidan. They all knew Aidan's reputation with men, and while Adam was happy for Dean, he was also afraid for his friend that if in the end, it turned out to be just a crush.

"A little," Dean told them. "But nothing... serious. Little pecks. No fully blown make-out sessions or anything."

Jimmy chuckled. "Well, I think it's sweet. No reason you two shouldn't get the most out of being roommates."

"It's not just convenience," Dean corrected him. "I mean, it _is_ convenient. But he's... he's changed. I shouldn't be talking about this when he's not here to defend himself."

At those words, Jimmy looked concerned. "You mean he's not interested in those things anymore? I can remember him being quite comfortable in that area."

"It's," Adam hesitated, "it's great, Dean. But Jimmy's right. The way I remember him, he wouldn't have been okay with little pecks. What exactly happened? In your own words, I mean. I want you to be happy. You're important to me."

"Ads..." Dean bit his lip, "I can't describe it. I can't. Since Richard died, and Aidan got his transplant, he's been different. And I've been different. Where we might not have liked another so much before, we are getting along much better now. Maybe we're just filling a void in another's lives. But isn't that what couples do? He's been sweet and very good company."

"Are you happy with him?" Adam asked. "Is he happy with you?"

"After Rich died," Dean told them, "I thought I'd never be happy again. And I'm not as happy as I was with Richard. Not yet. But it's getting a little better every day. And Aidan's helping." He finished his beer. "I don't know what else to tell you. He's made me laugh, and we never seem to run out of things to talk about. The past few weeks have been really nice."

When he looked up, Adam seemed content with that. "He'd better not claim all your cooking course food," he stated. "But that's nice. I didn't expect Aidan to be the person helping you get back on top of things, but you're right, he was nice when we played cards, even if I think his ex kept flirting with him. Never mind that now. You deserve something good in your life, Dean. Speaking of which," he leaned forward, "I've been told you're back into painting."

"I did finish _Osiris,_ finally," Dean looked relieved to have the subject changed. "It's up for auction right now at the Saatchi. I'll know how much it's purchased for in mid-May. In the meantime, prints are being made. I have a picture of it on my cell." He reached into his back pocket and brought up the image of _Osiris._ "What do you think?"

It was a masterpiece. Aidan had assured him of it before, and Adam and Jimmy didn't need to speak to tell Dean the same thing. Adam sat back with a sigh. "I miss him. He looks so real. Wasn't it hard, to paint him like that?"

"No," Dean said, realizing it was true. "It was the most natural thing in the world. Like loving him, it just came naturally. But now, I'm going to take a little break from art," he told them. "I talked Cate into it. I've been having fun with the cooking. And Aidan has been writing—"

At that moment, they all heard the sound of a key in the front door lock.

Aidan still wore his jacket when he came into the living room. He was busy toeing off his shoes somewhere at the door frame, but his eyes were already seeking out Dean, and then the company he was with. "Hi," he grinned, exhilarated. "Second round. I'm through to the second round."

Dean leapt to his feet and ran to embrace him. "I _knew_ it!" he told him. "You had it down cold!"

Jimmy shot Adam a knowing glance, eyebrows raised. "Well done, Aidan!" he added for good measure.

"Thanks, Jimmy," Aidan laughed over Dean's shoulder. "Hi Adam." He hugged Dean in reply, nearly lifting him off the floor. "I want this part so much. Can you imagine, the BBC. God, that'd be amazing." His eyes traveled to the record wall. "Oh," Aidan smiled, "it's here. It's gorgeous."

"We'll fill it later," Dean assured him. "You and me. But first... we're taking you to dinner."

"Yes," Jimmy clapped Aidan on the back, less forcefully than he would have normally. He still wasn't sure how much force Aidan's torso could withstand. "I want to hear all about this role you've auditioned for."

Adam leaned into Dean. "I can't believe it," he whispered.

"Dinner?" Oblivious to either Adam or Jimmy knowing about what was going on, Aidan's thoughts were promptly on food. "What are we having? Oh, and on what occasion? Because of the audition?"

He finally discarded his jacket and hung it over the back of the couch. Aidan followed soon after. He pulled his legs up and smiled at Jimmy, calming down a little. "Lead role. I get to have a scar, though I'm supposed to be a charismatic man regardless, and I get to dress like Napoleon. If I get it, of course. You did an excellent job at the record wall, you know. It fits perfectly where you put it. Did you mean for it to be placed there?"

"Well, it's not permanent by any means," Jimmy looked to Dean for guidance. "I mean, this is your house after all. Dean will be moving out at some point, right?"

"We can store it in the library," Dean said helplessly, "if we have to."

"I don't mind if he stays," Aidan shrugged. "It's a big house, and anyway, he's good company." He gave Dean a mischievous nudge. "It does look very good there. It would be a waste having to move it somewhere else."

Dean reached for Aidan's hand and squeezed it. "We were talking about that wall, over there," he pointed, "the one that runs from the foyer to this room." He smiled. "I can't wait to hear about the audition."

"Yeah, mate," Jimmy broke in. "We could all live vicariously through you tonight."

"You could live vicariously through me now." Aidan didn't see why they'd wait. "There isn't much to tell. It's my first audition since the surgery. I didn't expect it to go so well, but I've only been there for ten minutes. That's really it."

"Clearly your brush with death has given you a new lease on life," Adam told him. "Dean here can't shut up about how awesomely wonderful you are."

"Adam, _please_..." Dean reached over, taking Adam's half-finished beer from him. To Aidan he said, "It's the beer talking."

"Pity." Aidan chuckled. He knew very well he was pushing it. Aidan wanted to hug Dean close as soon as he saw him respond. "Anyway, Adam, how's life been? I heard about your show."

"Oh, you know," Adam waved his hand dismissively, suddenly less brash now that the attention was on him. "Everybody wants to come see the snarky geek tell jokes. The audience loves it when I talk dirty. It freaks them out."

"I know I love it," Jimmy agreed, and Dean chuckled.

Aidan followed their banter with warmth in his heart. He hadn't thought he'd ever have this—friends who simply shared laughter together, not necessarily while also trying to outdo one another or wanting to impress someone else. Richard had been his only link to a life like this, and now that Aidan had found a shard of it on his own, he wished he could share it with him.

In his chest beat the heart of a man whose presence Aidan yearned to reach out to. Dean could never take his place, Aidan was as sure of that as he was that Dean felt the same about him in return. But he was quickly finding out that Richard and Dean wouldn't quite inhabit the same space in his heart anyway.

He fondly nudged Dean again. "Are those two...?"

Jimmy nudged him back. "Oh, you bet."

"You have your card party to thank," Adam told Aidan with a grin. "It's when we got to know one another. So, thanks for that."

"Yeah, mate," Jimmy agreed. "It was a great night all around. And you look like you're recovering quite well."

"I'm working hard. I can't lose this heart. It's too important." Aidan accidentally knocked his jacket off the couch and reached to pick it up. "But yeah, we're lucky. It's slower in recovering than the average, but I've had only minor complications. Seems like this heart wants to be here," he mused, throwing a careful glance at Dean. They hadn't been open about Richard's heart to anyone else. At least Aidan hadn't. "You look great together. You should really thank Dean."

"Oh, they _had_ to come," Dean threw back his head and laughed. "I sort of gave them no choice. I'm glad it turned out for the best, though. For all of us," he nudged Aidan's foot with his own. "So, what do you fellas want for dinner?"


	21. St. Richard's Home for Wayward Boys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love ... and awkwardness.

They wound up at Artusi again. Aidan had enjoyed it so much the first time. Being a week night, Stephen had no problem getting the quartet a table. It was worth it for Dean seeing his friends' eyes light up as Stephen diced and cooked in front of them. The meal was incredible, and Dean didn't for a moment regret his decision to tell Adam about what was slowly blossoming between him and Aidan. 

He had been terrified of Adam's reaction. Of course, Adam was pretty hung up on Jimmy, so it certainly softened his attitude considerably. Adam's bitterness was well in check. Jimmy seemed to be just what he needed.

When Jimmy and Aidan got up to examine the restaurant's large aquarium, Dean reached for Adam's forearm and squeezed it. "Tonight was fun," he told his friend. "Am I insane, Adam?"

"Very." Adam's manner hadn't changed from lighthearted and friendly, with just a bit of a tease worked into it. "Oh, you're talking about Aidan? Well. The way I see it, Aidan was always annoyingly in your face. Admit it, Dean, he was. He was the kind of guy you wanted to be friends with—until you were actually friends, and you suddenly found yourself questioning whether you'd been drunk. He's still Aidan, very much so. But he's no longer trying so hard. And you," he poked his friend in the chest, "you have changed as well. This is the man who took your house, who claimed your husband's attention _all the time_. If I were you, I would have hated him. But you didn't. You're more independent these days. You have fun, you laugh. If that's because of him, then so what if you're a little insane? Isn't that what life is about?"

"I don't know," Dean shrugged, eyes alight with the absurdity of it all. "Is it?" His eyes wandered to Jimmy and Aidan, standing by the aquarium and animatedly discussing different breeds that swam past. "He'll probably come back to the table and say something about how cool it would be to have an aquarium in the townhouse."

"Are you going to stay there?" Adam wanted to know. "It's technically his house. I know he doesn't mind, but what are your thoughts? Are you serious about this?"

"Yeah, I guess... for now," Dean confessed, after draining the rest of his wine from its glass. "Aidan doesn't seem in a hurry to kick me out. And it's gotten easier. Much easier. I still haven't tackled the project of getting rid of Richard's clothing and jewelry. Every time I start, I find a reason not to do it."

"It's okay to keep some things. Donate his cardigans to a good cause, those that you don't want to hang on to. He would have liked that." Adam followed Jimmy's every move longingly. "Oh Dean," he sighed, "being here is great, but I am dying to take that man home. The things he does. I don't know how you do it, not have sex when you've got a willing someone."

"Well, it's not that much of a challenge," Dean chuckled. "Aidan's still healing, and I can't even fathom having sex right now. Not with anyone but Richard. Hell, I can't really even jerk off comfort—oh, _hey,_ " he cut off what would have been an awkward confession as Aidan and Jimmy returned to the table. "Cool fish, huh?"

"Cool tank!" Aidan beamed from ear to ear, his hands in his back pockets. "I wonder how much it costs to build it." 

Dean and Adam could tell by the way that Aidan looked at Dean that Jimmy had mentioned he knew something was up between them—Aidan no longer hid his affection. He didn't bring it up though. They had a delicate understanding, Dean and he, and Aidan based a lot of what he did around Dean on his consent. So, his hands were in his back pockets while he continued to smile. "Anyone up for a walk in Hyde Park?"

Dean's eyes lit up. He had gone to the park alone a couple of times since Richard had died. It had been awful, but he thought that maybe if he kept returning to their old haunts, he might somehow be able to feel closer to his husband. It hadn't helped so far.

"Perfect night for it," Dean nodded. "Maybe that gelato vendor will have her stand up. C'mon," he held out his hand for Aidan to take.

Aidan looked once at Adam and Jimmy, then took his hand without hesitation. A glow came over him. "You and ice cream," he chuckled. "But sure." He turned to Adam and Jimmy, and asked them if they were coming as well. Jimmy did mention that he didn't plan on making it very late, for obvious reasons, and Aidan did not want to hold him or Adam away from time spent together. They looked like they were still figuring out what it all meant—and that it was fun.

Dean immediately recognized their predicament. He had driven them to the restaurant. "Just a quick spin around the park? C’mon, I’ll drive us there," he cajoled. "It's romantic," he added.

Adam raised his eyebrows in Dean's direction as if to say _we don't need any encouragement in that arena._

However, Aidan was looking at them like maybe he did. "It'll be fun," he tried. "We could also get a cup of coffee, if you don't feel like having ice cream. Fifteen minutes tops."

Jimmy looked bewildered. "I'm stuffed, lads," he told them. "But I could certainly use the walk. What say, Ads?" he gave Adam a swift slap on his arse. 

"How can I say no?" Adam shied from Jimmy's advances. "Safety in numbers, and all that."

"I want to show you the Isis statute," Dean told Aidan, when they were all inside Dean’s car.

Aidan had once told him of that statue and of the confusing memories it had delivered him. It now felt like ages ago. Back then, the memories had unhinged him. He understood better now what they were. The changed perspective made the idea of seeing it again more comforting. Aidan squeezed Dean's hand. "Go ahead."

"We're going to be driving anyway. To Hyde Park, that is," Dean told Adam and Jimmy. "I could drop you two home, if you'd like."

"Ah, well." Jimmy didn't want to admit that he'd rather go home and enjoy another kind of exercise, if the option were available to him. Aidan did look hopeful, even if he just as much looked like he wanted to spend the rest of the night privately with Dean. "Oh, don't give me that. We'll come."

The Isis statue—a beautiful curvilinear heron on the shores of the Serpentine—was all but deserted at nine o'clock on an April evening. Parking the car was more hassle than the ten minutes it took for them to find their way to the statue and settle on the benches. "It's cold," Aidan chuckled when he watched Dean with his ice cream. "Aren't you freezing?"

"Yeah," Dean confided, slipping a little closer to him. "I am. Want some?" he offered Aidan some of his strawberry gelato.

Quite unabashedly, Aidan opened his mouth. He was rubbing his hands together in the cool weather, and he suspected he would get colder from the ice cream, but he also liked the attention. On the side, from somewhere in Adam's direction, he thought he heard a snort. Aidan ignored him gladly. They weren't going to be here for fifteen minutes at most, he knew that much already.

"Ah, will you look at that?" Jimmy tried to grab their attention by pointing out a mother duck followed by six little ducklings in the water. The gravel under his feet crunched, and then he was at the waterside. "Come over here, Ads. You need to see this."

"I... what?" Adam had shoved his hands into the pocket of his jacket and was looking at the Isis statue, trying to discern where Dean had received any inspiration. It was just a bird. " _Oh._ " He whispered, when he realized Jimmy was trying to give Aidan and Dean some time alone. Adam was torn between being happy for his best friend and wanting to smack some sense into him. 

"Coming," he locked his arm with Jimmy's and the two headed off into the night.

"I think I ate far too much," Dean moaned to Aidan, a hand over his stomach. "Ugh! What was I thinking?"

"Don't ask me," Aidan replied with a knowing smile. He was quite comfortable here with just the two of them, apart from the chill. "I had fun today. Thanks for taking me. You know, I think our friends have ditched us here. They're adorable together. Don't tell them I said that."

"They're just trying to get me to be happy," Dean told him. He accepted the half-eaten ice cream cone back from Aidan and tossed it in a nearby trash can. "I think they're under the impression that leaving me here alone, with you, will accomplish that."

Aidan's hand reached for his in the space between them. "And what do you think?"

"I think," Dean took the offered hand in both of his, "that I want to know how being here makes you feel. Do you feel anything... from your heart? Or is this just another spot on the map for you?"

From somewhere in the distance, Aidan could hear Jimmy and Adam talking to each other. They must not have gone home, then. He was glad they were still giving them their space. "It's the place Richard remembers," he started. "It's very strong here. I don't know what happened here, just that you and he went here regularly. That's what it means to my _heart_." He smiled softly. "You know my heart is complicated. That's what this place means to Richard. I haven't got many memories here myself. I just like being here with you. I don't think I'd mind making memories here with you."

"I'm sorry," Dean reached out to caress Aidan's face. "You're not a science experiment. I'm glad it's you who's here." He leaned in and up, kissing Aidan softly on the cheek. "This is the spot where I was standing when I decided to start the Egyptian series. And now you're going to be part of it."

"It doesn't look much like an Egyptian goddess," Aidan admitted in a whisper, his cheeks aglow. He wished to kiss Dean, but the rules were clear. Dean would tell him when he was ready. "Is it bad to say that? Either way, I'll be your Sun God. Have you thought about your composition yet?"

"Isis was the goddess of nature and rebirth," Dean told him. "In the mythology, she's associated with a number of different birds. The heron is one of them. You know, it's not hard envisioning you as the god of the sun, Aidan. You just seem to glow naturally from within." Dean's eyes searched his face. "You know that, don't you?"

Aidan did feel warm again. "I'm in a happy place these days. I'm sure you've heard, I am _sort of_ seeing this guy who gets all embarrassed when I poke him, and who lights up the world when he smiles. Someone should make a painting out of him. He's really nice. I think he doesn't know how nice. I should probably tell him, right?"

"Yeah," Dean drew closer. "Maybe you should. I'm really, really jealous of him, though."

"Sorry," Aidan mused dreamily. He offered a kiss on the cheek, because it was safe, and whispered, "You make me smile. Thank you."

"I don't know what I would have done without you these past few months," Dean told him. "I'll admit, I went into it prepared to barely tolerate you. I was doing it for Richard, because it's what he would have wanted. In the end, I realized that it was something that I wanted," he whispered, "for me."

Aidan kissed him on the cheek once more, this time in sympathy. "Thank you, again. I didn't understand what he saw in you, you know. He tried to explain it to me many times, but I didn't see it. I see it now, Dean. Please always be as patient with me as you have been the last couple of months."

A slow smile spread across Dean's face and he wrapped his arms around Aidan's waist, hugging him tightly. "I don't want to disappoint you," he told him, fighting back tears. "I'm so scared that I will."

"My standards are not that high." Aidan's hand twirled fingertips into Dean's hair at the nape of his neck. "I don't expect anything, but I'll be happy with what I get. You're setting the bar too high for yourself, Dean. Be who you are. Didn't I tell you that you make me smile?" This place they were in, confusing as it sometimes was, was ten times better than ill-guided hope after several nights of sex to Aidan, or the realization that compatibility in bed did not mean compatibility outside of it. Aidan was a human being when he was around Dean. "Besides," he chuckled, "you already convinced my mom."

Dean barked out a laugh. "Your mother's amazing, Aidan, but she's not the person I'm falling for." He lay his forehead against Aidan's. "Would kissing you right now be a bad idea?"

A good nervousness sparked through Aidan. He had never thought that taking it slow could do that to him. Dean didn't make him insecure about himself. Aidan kept his expectations low, which was why everything he was given was special. He didn't quite understand why the very idea of Dean kissing him made his skin so sensitive that a brush of hair against his skin had him tremble. "Not to me," he whispered, his breath ghosting against the other's lips.

With a sigh that Dean was sure could be heard for miles, he surged forward, closing the gap between those millimeters of flesh. His lips were a little sticky from his dessert, and tasted of strawberries and cream. When Aidan didn't pull away, Dean kissed him more fervently with a ferocity that frightened even him. He broke the kiss with an apology. "I—I'm sorry. W—we shouldn't..."

"Why not?" breathed Aidan, who was looking at him with fully blown pupils and an unsteady breath. He had not expected such a strong urge behind the kiss. Dean had to either have wanted this for some time, or he was physically deprived. Aidan didn't mind either. "Is that common sense speaking, or am I going too fast?"

"Common sense," Dean told him quickly, so there would be no mistake. "Aidan, how do we know this is real? How do we know we just don't like each other because we've been cooped up in the same house together since Richard died? Don't you want to know? I do."

And yet, despite his hesitancy, Dean loved the way Aidan's hands felt splayed across his back, and he arched into the touch.

"So what if it is?" Aidan however asked. "I wouldn't have gotten to know you as you are, hadn't we shared a house. You would have found an apartment of your own and we wouldn't have seen each other again. I'm glad I got the chance. And it's not like you've been my only chance, though I'm going to be honest, I would have accepted the dreams sooner if I hadn't thought you were going to be Richard's always. You're an amazing person."

Aidan knew it was a dangerous thing to say, but if he didn't say it now, it would forever hang over their heads. He waited with baited breath for the response.

"I _will_ always love Richard," Dean assured him. "But he's gone. He's not coming back. And my life is far from over. And now, neither is yours. I can't wallow. I tried, and it's painful. He'd only scold me for it, wouldn't he?" Dean took Aidan's hand and pulled him over to a nearby bench to sit down. "I'd like to hear more about those dreams. I know they make you uncomfortable, but I'm also thinking they're partially responsible for your attraction to me. I just... I'm curious," he blushed, and confessed, "and horny."

Aidan searched Dean's eyes, quite out of breath. "...Fuck, don't say that." He sat back, not because he wanted to but because he needed to protect himself from himself. "We'll talk about it tonight, okay? I don't know, Dean. I want you, and maybe it's because of what I've seen, maybe it's Richard, but maybe they were just dreams that opened my eyes. Ask me when we're home. I don't know when or if Adam and Jimmy are coming back, and this isn't something we should talk about here."

"When you're ready," Dean told him, squeezing his hand tightly. "You have to know it's been torturing me, knowing your journal is right there in your room. I'd love to know what goes on inside your head," he slid closer to Aidan on the bench, "especially when you think of me."

Conflicted at all the things he could and could not do, Aidan gave in to his urge and draped his arms over Dean's shoulders. This time it was him who initiated the kiss, a constrained slow start that melted into a natural kiss regardless of how much he wanted more. It was divine and heady. "Tonight," promised he. "When we're home."

If they had been at home, Dean could have easily climbed into Aidan's lap, surgery or no surgery. He was already edging in that direction when a throat was cleared behind them. 

"Guys," Adam spoke up, "as entertaining as it's been watching you make out for the past fifteen minutes, we're a little chilly. Could we head home, maybe pick this up indoors?" 

Jimmy milled behind him sheepishly.

Caught, they separated. Aidan smiled in his embarrassment. "I don't believe they paid attention to us longer than a minute," he whispered to Dean. "Not with how Jimmy looks." Adam and him had obviously been up to something. But a promise was a promise, they had taken a lot longer than a casual walk in the park. So Aidan offered Dean a hand when he got up.

\- - - - -

It took forever to get back to the townhouse. Dean and Aidan had dropped Adam and Jimmy off at Adam's place, so there was no doubt about what they were up to, and Aidan remained very quiet in the car. A small smile kept playing on his lips, but he had not dared break the silence.

Even upon returning home, he had fetched himself a cup of tea first, and then taken the seat where he was absolutely sure Dean could not sit within his reach, unless he sat on the floor. Aidan needed that—he was nervous beyond reckoning.

At last he scraped his throat and took a deep breath. "Ask."

Dean, clearly nervous, ran a finger around the rim of Richard's Shakespeare mug. "You dreamed you were Richard, having sex with me," he stated. "I kinda figured that out on my own," he blushed. "Did you like it?"

No matter how much he expected it, the question was still blunt and forward. Aidan winced. He had promised Dean truth. "I hated it at first. The first time I dreamed about you was the night before I left the hospital. Richard had just gone, and when I woke up I felt so incredibly guilty. I didn't notice until the end that it was from his perspective. I thought I was having a dream about me and you, before it turned out that I wasn't. And it continued to be like that. I'd wake up, see you and be reminded of the way you had looked through Richard's eyes. It was painful. You two were perfect. I'd never have that." He fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. "And then I discovered I could take over his perspective, and it'd be like you were having sex with me. It just made me even more guilty in the morning, but I did it several times."

A slow smile spread across Dean's face, but did little to hide his blush. "So... you've seen me naked."

"I've had sex with you in my dreams. Of course I've seen you naked." Aidan dared smile in return. "In your dream, you must have seen me naked too."

"Well... yes," Dean conceded. "But I've had to use my imagination."

"How do I look in your imagination?" Aidan figured he didn't have to be the only one asking questions.

Dean chuckled nervously, "You look... good." His eyes met Aidan's. "Miles of golden skin, fuzzy—you know—in spots. You're not _cut_ , like a body builder or anything, but everything just where it's supposed to be. God," he groaned. "I suck at this."

Aidan laughed though, glad that they were both dreadfully bad at it. "Miles of golden skin? You won't expect me to get a tan before you see me naked for real, right? Anyway... yeah. It was uncomfortable having the dreams. I started liking them, but they were technically memories of Richard and you. It felt like I was soiling a beautiful thing."

"You do have a naturally dark cast to your skin," Dean told him. "I suppose we could call it _olive_ as opposed to gold, if you prefer. Did it make it any easier to have the dreams, once you found out you had Richard's heart inside you?"

"Yes and no." Aidan bit on his thumb. "I understand them better, but at the same time... they're echoes. They're not things he's trying to communicate from the other side; they're remnants from when he was alive. He won't be able to make any more memories. It makes me sad. I don't want to be dreaming about you and him. I _like_ the part where I feel loved and in love, but it's not me you want in those dreams."

"Maybe not in those dreams," Dean reached across the table and lay his hand over Aidan's, "but I do want you."

Aidan laced his fingers with Dean's in reply. A sadness had crept into his voice at remembering Richard. Would the day ever come that he stopped missing him? "We'll make our own memories. I want you for myself. I don't want to feel guilty about that."

"Don't," Dean whispered, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. "Please don't. You're not Richard. But I'm not that perfect guy in your dreams, either."

"Tell me?" Fingers were tracing lines on the back of Dean's hand. Aidan had gone from nervous to lighthearted to timid in the span of minutes. Richard would tell him not to worry, and he'd be right.

"Tell you why I'm not perfect?" Dean scoffed. "Hell, I'm sure you've figured that all out by now. I'm... well, I'm a bit of a control freak. And I’m weird. Maybe a little paranoid. And my self-esteem isn't so great either."

Aidan squeezed his hand. "I meant tell me about you. Not just the bad things. What moves you? What makes you get up in the morning? What makes you laugh?"

"Oh... _oh_ ," Dean raised his eyebrows. "Those are deep questions, Aidan." Dean drew in a slow breath. "I love colors," he said, brows knit. "I like painting and cooking, I suppose, because of the interplay of colors. I could never serve anything that I didn't find pleasing to the eye. I feel the same way about shapes and textures. I enjoy creating, and the interplay of the three."

Blushing, he took a sip of his tea. "Is that what you meant?"

Aidan's smile was his answer. There he was, Dean without the insecurities that hid him from sight. "You're a beautiful person. You've got the ability to create worlds on a canvas or a plate, but you give what you make to others to enjoy." He sat forward and stole a small kiss. "It's attractive."

Dean moved his socked foot until it was up against Aidan's under the table. "But, why do I get up in the morning..." he sighed. "That's a difficult question. We talked about it in group. For a while, as you know, I was forcing myself to get up. _Fake it 'til you make it._ That's what you do sometimes. But then, I started looking forward to getting up to make breakfast because I got a new recipe from my cooking class. Then, I started looking forward to breakfast because you liked what I made and you'd sit with me to eat it. And you talked to me and you cared about what I said. We could talk about Richard and, while it made me sad, it didn't upset me." Dean raised his blue eyes to meet Aidan's. "I started to look forward to seeing you every day. Often. When you started dating Dr. Pace, I freaked out. I... I suppose I was jealous."

The smile slid off Aidan's face. "Sorry. I just—I don't know, I _wanted_ it to work. He was supposed to be as close to perfect as I'd be able to get, and he wanted to go out with me. We had nothing in common. I didn't like how I felt when I was with him. I like being around you. I remember when Luke slept in my room at game night, and he told me the next morning how you had come up to him and told him to be careful with me. He thought I should give you a chance. I thought you were just being a good friend, but it still made me feel good the rest of the day."

"Oh," Dean bit his lip nervously. " _Luke._ I feel horrible about that. I honestly don't know what came over me. I mean, I invited him over because you two had been close, and I thought it might help your recovery. But, when I saw him following you away to your bedroom, I just... I... well, I'm sure that I knew even then that I was falling for you."

"Nothing happened, Dean," Aidan assured him. "Sure, we flirted, but we've got this agreement. Nothing happens if either of us are involved, or when either of us thinks they might be. I think Luke saw it before I did. It was nice having him around though. Thanks for asking him. But," Aidan nudged Dean, "I'm not here to talk about him. I offered to answer your questions."

"I'm sorry I brought him up," Dean said. "Paranoid, remember?" he smiled, trying to lighten the mood. "I guess I want to know why it's never worked out for you. Relationships, I mean."

"Oh." Aidan blew out. "I don't know. I'm probably attracted to the wrong people, or I find them in the wrong places. Or I just go about it the wrong way. I don't know what it is. I've tried very hard. It's just, it was like everyone I've dated eventually either decided it was only fun for a few nights but nothing more, or we turned out to have nothing in common."

"Well," Dean's eyes studied Aidan's face intently, "there is nothing wrong with holding out for what you want. When I met Richard, I had pretty much resigned myself to being single forever. He brought out the best in me. I think he did that for you, too, didn't he?"

Aidan chuckled. "You were what, twenty when you met him? And already quite the pessimist? I bet you had all the people flocking around you, but none of them male. Richard showed me pictures. It can't be because of the way you looked. You were rather cute." He forced himself back on topic. "But yes, I suppose, although I like to think he just saw the best in me like he saw the worst, and I could be myself because I wouldn't be fooling anyone. If there's one thing I learned from Richard, it is that it's good to have someone care about you as you are."

"St. Richard's Home for Wayward Boys," Dean said absently. "I was _awful_ at twenty-one. You wouldn't have liked me then. I didn't really like me then," Dean smiled, but no joke was intended. "Richard did, though. I should have been kinder to you all along, Aidan."

Aidan simply raised his shoulders. "We were different people. It's okay." He twirled a finger absently over Dean's wrist. "You haven't had much luck with your parents or that first guy you liked. They must have hated Richard. If we can, can we ignore they exist for as long as possible?"

"That won't be hard," Dean flipped his hand over and squeezed Aidan's tightly. "I haven't seen my parents for nine years." He chuckled bitterly. "For what it's worth, I think they liked Richard more than they like me."

"Your parents, if you don't mind me saying so, are dicks." Aidan smiled at Dean, before slipping from the seat and next to Dean, where he rested his head on his shoulder and closed his eyes. "I know at least one parent who is going to be thrilled with you, and ninety-nine percent says two. Well, hundred, but Dad doesn't say it easily."

"I love your parents," Dean declared. "They're like the parents I would wish for, if I were blowing out the candles on my birthday cake." His hand slid to Aidan's thigh and squeezed. "I wish they lived closer."

"They are close. We live in London; there's three airports around us." Aidan stole a kiss on Dean's cheek. "But not tonight. Tonight I'm just going to enjoy being alone with you. Do you want to watch a movie? Maybe a study for the Sun God? I've still got some work to do on the Coventry outline, if you want to just sit together and do something else."

"You should finish your writing, if you want to," Dean told him, adding. "I like being able to say that to you. But," he smiled mischievously, "when you need a break..."

"Hmm, but I wouldn't get much done if you make me look forward to the breaks," smiled Aidan. "I'm not in a hurry. What did you have in mind?"

Across Dean's face flashed a gamut of emotions. He could remain silent, but he couldn't suppress the blush that gave his thoughts away. 

"How about," he said finally, "one more kiss?"

Aidan turned his face, his chin still resting on Dean's shoulder, which brought his mouth very close indeed to Dean's ear. But Aidan did not know whether that would be pushing it, so he whispered, "Of course," sat back only enough to look Dean in the eye, and leaned in.

Dean closed his eyes against the rush of emotions lambasting him as he kissed Aidan in the living room he once shared with his husband. Guilt niggled him, but was overridden by his body awakening to the touch of those small bits of flesh.

He leaned back in his chair, smiling a dazed smile. "This is so weird," he concluded.

"I know," Aidan smiled inches from his face, and kissed him again. "It's probably going to get weirder still." He had no problem with that, just as he had no trouble continuing to steal kisses wherever he could. It was the first night in which he could truly indulge himself—the first night in which all of his insecurities were silent. He hoped that eventually that safety transferred over to Dean. Aidan had never thought of him as so unsure about himself. If he'd known, maybe he would have made an effort to get to know him sooner. "Are you okay with this?"

"Yeah," Dean assured him. "I'm okay _and_ I'm freaking out. So, typical day for me, right?"

With a final nip at his lips, Aidan sat back to give him some space. He was beaming, just as he was very obviously very aroused, but instead he said, "That's enough for today then." He nudged over to his bedroom. "I'm going to fetch my laptop and write. Do you want to join me?"

On more solid ground, Dean nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I do. I actually am supposed to be doing some homework for cooking class...researching online sites for some recipes to play with. Do you want to work in the living room? I could put on some music..."

"After I'm done?" Aidan would have trouble focusing on his writing when there was music. Well, he thought to himself, he would have trouble focusing anyway. His system was not ready for logic and words. Perhaps it would be, if he dealt with the crisis first. But could he be that quick?

Oh, it was ridiculous. They were dating, they were going to share a lot of things together. Aidan was aware of himself when he added, "I'm uh, going to get a shower first."

Dean's eyes, involuntarily, fell to Aidan's lap. "I'm sorry," Dean told him. "If you want, I could... you know... _help_ you with that."

Aidan wished he hadn't just told Dean they had had enough for the day. He would have kissed him for that look alone. "Another time," he shook his head. "We're not there yet."

"Okay," Dean whispered, and Aidan didn't miss the sadness in his eyes. "I'll take a shower too," he decided, scooping up their mugs with both hands and carrying them to the sink. He felt like throwing them. _What the fuck is wrong with me?_ he berated himself for his behavior. 

Soft footsteps followed after him. Aidan gave him the space, leaning against the doorframe. He couldn't leave it like that. Maybe if he hadn't seen it, but not now that he had. "Hey," he spoke quietly, "I'm sorry. It's not that I don't want to. You know that, right?"

"Yes, yes, of course," Dean's hand shook and the two mugs clanked together as he set them in the sink. "I hadn't expected this to be easy." Dean couldn't meet his eyes. He would have given anything for Richard to come home from work and tell them to stop being idiots. "I just...," his shoulders sagged, "tonight was nice. I'm sorry I ruined it."

Aidan's concern softened. "You didn't ruin anything. I'm going to be looking forward to the time when we're ready to take that step, but for now I'm going to take that shower and I'm going to enjoy what already is. We kissed, Dean. I've wanted to since the moment you said you liked me. This night is a beautiful one."

Dean's throat was tight and he clung to the edge of the sink. "Yeah," he croaked. "I... I'll see you soon, Aidan."

Without another word, Aidan moved up to wrap his arms around his waist. He took care not to have his lower regions press up against Dean, focusing on offering only comfort. "I don't know what to do," he admitted. "I keep being afraid I'll fuck up. Please tell me if there's anything I can do. I can go if you want me to, but I won't if you need me to stay."

"It's not you, Aidan," Dean told him. "It's me. You're... you're perfectly delightful and adorable. You're not doing anything wrong," the tension in his body eased a bit under Aidan's hands. "You're right. Showers... and then we hang out in the living room. All right?"

"Showers," the other man acquiesced, "then living room." He stole a quick kiss against Dean's neck—and hoped that he passed it off as casual—before extracting himself. "I won't take long."

He didn't like to go, but Aidan knew that—not to run into the risk of smothering Dean—he had to. He made sure he was fast about fetching his pajamas and underwear, found his way to the guest bathroom and, in a moment of feeling adventurous, left the door unlocked. Aidan knew Dean wouldn't come looking—it wasn't visible from the outside anyway—but the idea stirred something in him.

As soon as he was used to the warm water, Aidan leaned his forehead against the cool tiles and wrapped a hand around himself. The idea that that could be Dean was titillating. He sighed out in pleasure.

Waiting was going to be torture.


	22. "I Love You"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's jumping on the couples bandwagon. Wonder who Martin has his eye on? Dean and Aidan travel to St. Ives on the long-awaited beach trip.

Dean scrubbed the mugs, then the spoons—then the sink and the table—with more force than necessary. 

_Guilt._ They had talked about this in group. There was always some guilt involved in starting up a new relationship after the death of a spouse. Some people had more than others. Some people never recovered. 

Things had felt so normal at dinner, and so right in the park. But here at home, with the specter of Richard in every room, Dean felt on display. Neither he nor Richard were religious people, so he wasn't thinking of angels or reincarnation. He just felt that he was being unfaithful to Richard's memory.

"What do I do, Rich?" he asked the empty kitchen, his voice echoing off the tiles. "Is this okay?"

There was no sound in response except for the hum of the refrigerator, and, in the distance, the sound of Aidan in the shower. 

The air felt filled with electricity. 

"I think I might love him," Dean whispered into the stillness.

\- - - - -

"So."

Martin stirred his coffee primly, his mouth puckered and his eyes focused on the spoon. It belied his sharp attention on his friend. It was a beautiful day outside, with spring in the air and just a hint of summer already knocking on the door. London was, as it always was, bustling with activity around them. Martin was used to it, and as such the epitome of peace.

"Adam's been telling me things."

"You don't say," Dean hooked a finger into the cream pitcher and poured a few splashes into his own mug. "Can you be a bit more specific?"

Martin kept his eyes on his coffee or his surroundings—all very casual. "Oh, you know, the fact that you're dating."

"Yeah," Dean sniffed his drink, then took a sip, hissing at the heat. "We are, I suppose you could say. Was Adam... concerned about this?"

"Oh, Adam is Adam." Martin sat back and sampled the coffee. It was still too hot. "He's both thrilled and afraid you'll be taken advantage of. If ever there was a white knight when it comes to your love life, it's him. But how are things?"

"Things are... great," Dean admitted, "when I'm not fucking them up. Aidan's been a champ," he said. "He's so patient and polite. And I'm," he shrugged, "well, I'm all over the damn map, Martin."

He was replied with a raised eyebrow. The best thing about Martin was that no matter the subject, he could make it look like something mundane. None would think they were having a deep conversation by looking at him. "Why is that? Because of Richard?"

"Well, that's the main reason, of course," Dean responded immediately. "But then there's this: what if the only reason I've found myself attracted to Aidan is because we've been living together in mourning for four months? What if I've gravitated to him because he's been there... he's the only game in town?"

"Oh, there's an easy way to figuring that out," replied Martin. "You go out and you see what other game does to you. I'm sure Adam would love to take you with him, unless you wouldn't mind meeting someone at a book club or at uni."

"Go out... you mean, like _on the prowl?_ " Dean became suddenly very interested in the vase of flowers on their table. "Shit, Martin!"

"On the prowl, sharing a conversation over a beverage... There are many things to call it. It could also just be testing whether you like him for real." Martin chuckled. "Not per definition for you to get lucky, you know. But you have to admit that if you're scared that you like him because you've been cooped up together, the way to test that is to spend time apart."

"Aidan had a date a month or so ago with his doctor, the one that performed the surgery on him," Dean told Martin. "I'm embarrassed to admit it, but I was jealous. I was so jealous I could hardly breathe." He sighed. "But maybe you're right. I wouldn't even know where to begin though, Martin."

"Well, you go out, and you talk to people. For instance," Martin sipped innocently from his coffee, "the waiter."

Dean chuckled, "What?" he looked up at the fellow who had brought their coffee. "He probably thinks I'm with you."

"Oh, I'm sure he doesn't. He's seen me here by myself a lot more than with company. Yes, he's gay, and yes, he's single. But he's also just a guy who likes to chat when it's quiet like today." Which left no doubt about it that Martin and the waiter had talked before, and that there was no way for Dean to talk himself out of it.

Martin smiled like an angel, but he wondered. It was true that Dean always spent a lot of time at home, and Aidan was home all the time as well. Still, Martin had assumed one of them to quit after an explosive flight; he had not expected blossoming love.

"He's not bad looking," Dean smiled. "Tall. Seems a cheeky fellow though. All right then, I'll say hello. What's the worst that could happen?" When the dark haired man turned around, Dean waved him over. "Hello," Dean leaned in to read the man's name tag, " _Benedict_. That's an intriguing name, isn't it?"

The waiter stopped at his behest, his expression either interested or dreading what Dean would say next. Apparently he had had many people calling him by the wrong name. Seeing Martin in his company gave Dean the benefit of the doubt. "Unusual, maybe, but intriguing how?"

"It's not a name you see every day," Dean told him. "In fact, aside from history, I don't think I've ever met anyone named Benedict. You know, the traitor, Benedict Arnold? It's ironic though, because in Latin _bene dict_ means to speak well of someone, or to bless them. So, I guess your mother blessed you with the name. Uh..." Dean looked to Martin for help, and the man only smiled in dazed amusement, "could we get some cinnamon, please, Benedict?"

"... Coming right up. You need anything, Martin?"

"Oh, no, I'm good, thanks."

"One cookie, got it. Just a minute."

They understood each other at an astonishing level. Martin patted Dean on the shoulder when Benedict left. "Not bad. He'll think you are one of my linguist friends. So, how was that?"

"Are you kidding me?" Dean buried his face in his hands with a groan. "He thinks I'm an idiot. I _suck_ at small talk. You know this. And, how could you ask me to try to flirt with someone who obviously has a thing for you?"

"Obviously—? Oh no, no, not at all." Martin wriggled his nose. "Is that what you call flirting? I did not imply sexually proposing yourself to someone else, you know—and if that's what you tried, you did a terrible job at it. Simply, meet new people. See what else is out there, and then compare. You might find Aidan is not it for you, but who knows, it wouldn't surprise me if you figure out that he is. I think half of your concern is that you like _Aidan_."

Dean looked up at Martin as if he had gone mad. Dean's point was made a moment later when the waiter reappeared with a plump macadamia nut cookie on a plate and placed it in front of Martin with a mysterious smile.

"I'm pretty sure that cookie isn't going to show up on our bill," Dean chuckled. "He _likes_ you. No wonder you keep bringing me here."

"Excuse me, why I come here is my own business." Martin coughed as if to plead innocent. He sipped his coffee with his eyes on the street. "But you have to admit, this place has its perks."

"I should say so," Dean leaned over and broke off a corner of the cookie, popping it into his mouth. "Benedict," he said almost inaudibly around the bit of food. "Mmm, Bendict's cookies are quite delicious."

Martin had nonetheless heard. "So, tell him. Strike up a conversation. I am sure you wouldn't attempt to flirt again, but the case remains the same. See how you respond to other people."

Dean sighed sadly. He had done this already. Part of his therapy was slogging through a workbook that Orlando had given everyone in the group. There was a whole section called _Moving On_ in which he'd been asked to make a list of five people he would realistically date. Martin had been on the rather pitiful list. Dean wasn't going to confess to that.

"Dating is work," Dean said instead. "I don't want to work. I want things to come naturally. I want to fall in love, not work for it. I want to be surprised by it, like I was with Richard. Like I am with..." Dean's phrase faded off. 

"Like you are with Aidan," Martin finished his sentence. "There you have your answer. It's not a bad thing."

Dean wiggled his coffee cup back and forth slightly with one finger. "I used to hate him," he confessed.

"You used to hate Richard," Martin pointed out.

Dean blinked and a tear ran from his eye. "I kinda did," Dean whispered, "didn't I?"

"It's okay. Aidan used to avoid you too. Things really changed, haven't they? All that's left is for you to figure out what you want to do with it."

"He likes me too," Dean told Martin, swiping the tear away absently. "Can you believe that? I want him to be happy, Martin. _I_ want to be happy.

Martin smiled around his sip of coffee. He put the cup down and took a bite from his cookie. "Then be happy. It's right there for the taking, if you wouldn't be so unsure about it. Go for it. Tell nobody if you don't want to, but be happy. You deserve some happiness."

Dean nodded. Martin was right. Aidan had been helping Dean alleviate his loneliness for weeks. He was far from perfect. But, so was Dean. Richard had been mad about Aidan. It was that unconditional love that helped Dean see past his jealousy. 

"What would Richard think of me?" Dean asked. "God, this is like a bad movie."

"Oh Dean," Martin sighed. He knew it couldn't be easy. Every day he worked with Richard's replacement at work, he was reminded of everything his friend had left behind. They had granted him an honorary plaque in the library, a place he had always fought for during his life, and held a meeting for people who wanted to talk about him and his books, but that was it.

Martin looked at Dean sadly. "Richard would have just wanted you to be happy. That's all he ever wanted. And with Aidan—I think if he were watching you, he would have agreed with Aidan. Top of his list, probably. You don't need me to tell you that. People fall in love again. It happens all the time. You made him very happy, but let's face it, Dean, he is gone. No matter how long you wait for him, it can't bring him back. Nobody is going to think less of you if you honor his memory by living."

Dean swallowed thickly. "Thank you, Martin. Thanks for listening, and sticking by me through all this. I couldn't ask for a better friend."

"I would be a lousy friend indeed if I didn't," smiled Martin. "Now, order another cup of coffee and ask the waiter kindly to have a chat, if only so I get an excuse to talk to him."

Dean snorted. "Martin, _I'm_ not the one who should be talking to him," he grinned. "What's his deal? Is this is only job? I know you know these things already."

"He moonlights as a writer," Martin quickly informed him. "Psychology lit. It's all very interesting, if you're into it. But you know how it goes. Unless you write a couple of books about aspiring wizards at a school seemingly named after livestock, it doesn't make a living. Me, I'm taking my time. Half the fun is seeing how long it takes before he asks."  
A slow smile spread across Dean's face. Martin liked this Benedict fellow. How happy Richard would have been for his friend. He almost made mention of it, but to speak of it would have saddened them both.

"You just got done telling me to take initiative," Dean prodded him. "We're having another game night next Friday. Invite him."

"Are you forcefully matchmaking me?" laughed Martin. "Game night. Very well. I'll see what I can do, but not with you here, unless we somehow end up having a nice conversation with him after all."

"Forcefully? Never," Dean stood with a satisfied smile. "But I'll certainly allow myself to be party to it. Seven, our place, next Friday night. Bring booze... and _him_." he inclined his head in Benedict's direction, then leaned over and gave Martin a smacking kiss on the top of his head.

Dean raised his hand in parting after he got out into the spring sunshine, a dimpled smile on his face.

And Martin, Martin sat baffled at the change in his friend.

_Next time_ , he sent Dean a message, _you pay the bill._

Not a minute later, Dean received another one, unexpectedly from someone else.

_Rough outline done! Want to read when you're home?_

_Absolutely,_ Dean texted. _Groceries first. Making seafood lasagna tonight. xoxo_

He took a deep breath, then pressed send.

Less than a minute after that, the next message popped into view. Aidan didn't care about appearing busy with something else. _It's not very refined yet, but love to hear what you think. Lasagna, yes please. Say hi to Martin for me! <3_

Dean already knew that Aidan's outline was going to be perfect. He made no pretense about understanding the talent that Aidan had mysteriously inherited from Richard, but there was no question as to its existence. 

_Be home in an hour,_ Dean promised.

And he was.

\- - - - - 

The sky would have been a beautiful azure blue, if not for the few tufts of white that broke the perfection above the water. "Is that the ocean?" asked Aidan, decidedly less loaded with suitcases than half an hour earlier, "Or is it still the sea?"

What he meant to say was, it was beautiful. Somewhere, at an odd angle from here, were his parents. At a straighter angle, there lay a different continent. And south, crossing a few miles of land, south was the rest of Europe.

Aidan sat watching it with sunglasses on his nose from the balcony of Dean's hotel room. Aidan's room was next door. Dean had paid for two rooms and, by god, they were going to take advantage of them.

It was surreal. He wasn't supposed to have made it here. But June had reared its head and Aidan was still alive.

Richard was not.

The breeze ruffled Dean's hair. "Well, technically that way is the bay," he pointed. "St. Ives Bay. And in that direction is the Celtic Sea, which is part of the Atlantic Ocean. At least, that's what the map in my hotel room says." A trio of seagulls flew overhead, and Dean watched them as they veered off into the tourist area. He drew in a deep lungful of air that smelled of the sea, caramel popcorn and suntan lotion. "Seems like forever since I booked this trip."

"It is forever," said Aidan, who could still remember how furious he had been with Dean for booking the trip so late for someone with a serious heart condition. "Come here, hand me the sunscreen. You're going to look like a lobster if you go out like that."

"It's only bad for the first couple of days," Dean assured him, reluctant to duck back inside his room. The view from the balcony was too compelling. "Once I get that initial burn, I will tan a bit. Beauty is pain. Isn't that what they say?" he smiled, handing the bottle to Aidan.

"I never pegged you for a vain man." Aidan's lips quirked, his eyes amused, before spreading the lotion evenly over Dean's neck. "It would be easier," he tried, "if you took your shirt off."

"This body," Dean blushed, "doesn't often see the sun. You see, I've cultivated this kind of pale, tragic hip artist look."

"Tragic hip artist who's becoming tragic hip chef," mused Aidan, who took matters into his own hand and tugged on the hem of the shirt. "I don't mind if you turn lobster, if that's what you're after, but if not, you really need more sunscreen."

He didn't pull the shirt all the way off to give Dean a chance to do it himself—and to not give away his own anticipation. "What do you want to do later? A walk?"

"A walk sounds fantastic," Dean agreed, pulling his t-shirt over his head to reveal a pale chest, sprinkled with smatters of freckles and sparse golden hair. "All the websites say the downtown area's really fun in the evening all summer long." 

Aidan smiled, while bringing the first cold lotion in contact with Dean's skin. "Sorry," he chuckled. "We can head downtown. I have no idea what to expect, other than the sea, so surprise me."

He did not forget why they were here. On the table in Dean's room stood Richard's urn. Now that it was no longer the holiday they had imagined, it would be a farewell instead. Aidan dreaded the moment he had to let go. It was a small comfort that Richard's heart would always be with him.

Dean being here with him helped, and the prospect of going into town and enjoying the vacation for Richard's sake did, too.

It was also the first time he saw Dean's upper body undressed beyond the scope of his dreams. Aidan let his hands explore shoulders while pretending to be expertly applying the sunscreen. Where Dean wouldn't notice it, he sighed happily.

Dean has always loved the smell of suntan lotion. He associated it with summer, picnics and fun. Aidan's hands were steady and sure against his skin. Dean's body cried out for the contact; no one had touched him this intimately since early January. No one since Richard. It felt wonderful, and it felt awful simultaneously.

"Y-you have very strong hands," Dean said, to break the tension. 

Aidan immediately stopped massaging the lotion in. Perhaps Dean didn't mean it that way, but the manner in which he said it implied things not altogether innocent—things that Aidan was more than ready for. "That uh, that'll do. Turn around, let me check your face."

Saddened by the loss of those soothing hands, Dean turned around slowly. "I can take care of my own face," he said gently. "You needn't—" but he quieted when Aidan's hand cupped his jaw, and leaned into the warmth. "I could let you do this all day, Aidan."

"I could do this all day," admitted Aidan, while he stole a kiss. "But we wouldn't get out of the hotel."

"Would that be so awful?" Dean cocked his head to the side playfully, reaching out to wrap one arm around Aidan's waist and pull them belly to belly. "If we stayed inside here, just for a little while?"

Outside beckoned the sun and the sea, its quiet rumbling audible from the balcony. Its pull had nothing on Dean pulling Aidan against him, and Aidan stumbled in his reply. After weeks of them accepting that they were dating and taking it very slow, every step forward was special. Today that step came in the form of Dean pressing against him without a shirt on.

"Can you keep it off?" Aidan asked.

Dean nodded. "Uh huh," he agreed readily, other hand creeping up under Aidan's shirt until his hand rested over Aidan's surgical scar. "Will you show me yours?"

And that was what Aidan was afraid of. "It's ugly. It's still red. It's supposed to fade to white, but it's not." He hadn't planned on catching some sun with his shirt off. It was most likely not good for the scar, true, but the biggest reason was that he thought the wound to be hideous. The mark of carrying another man's heart and still living thanks to it, but unsightly in any other way.

"Let me see?" Dean entreated. "I know it takes a while for scars to heal, and longer for them to start fading. This one," he rubbed a slow circle over the afflicted area, "I know you'll always have it. Please?"

"It's not nice," Aidan said again.

"It's part of you," Dean cajoled, rubbing his back, then leaning in to kiss him softly. "Don't make wait until you've had too many beers and I have to sneak a peek while you're passed out."

"Oh, I see the kind of person you are." The tease was light, but Aidan was still reluctant when he took his shirt off. When it was done, he looked to the ground. "It's ugly."

The scar wasn't quite red but a deep maroon, and almost an inch wide, puffy in spots where the sutures had been. It ran from just above Aidan's navel to just below the hollow of his neck. Dean reached out a hand and ran a finger tentatively and gently along part of its length. It was spongy and smooth.

"Does it still give you pain?" Dean wondered.

Aidan shook his head. "Only if you push. It's bad, isn't it?" Only Lee had seen it, and then only during checkups. It felt strangely vulnerable to allow Dean to see. Gone was Dean's illusion that his chest was cut, all in good measure, while an angry red scar called for attention. "I'm alive because of that scar," said he, "but I know how it looks."

Dean shook his head. "It's not so bad," he leaned down and lay a kiss to the spot under Aidan's throat where the scar began. "Not so bad at all," he added, kissing it again at its midway point. His breath ghosted hotly over the lowest part of the scar, and he kissed it one more time, lips lingering.

The sensitive flesh responded to the light ministrations beyond Aidan's command to stop it, to not let it continue. He was painfully aware of the flaw, but his rebellious body would have none of it. "Dean," he breathed, "please—"

And even there it blocked him in asking Dean to stop what he was doing. Aidan's hands intercepted at last, cradling the other man's chin and bringing it up for him to kiss him and distract him from the monstrosity on his chest. He was unprepared for the emotion layered into his actions when their lips met.

When Dean pulled away from the kiss, his eyes were dark. "If I'm going to love you," he told Aidan, "you must let me love _all_ of you. That scar... it's the physical reminder of what—and who—brought us together."

Aidan laughed unexpectedly. Dean wanted to love him. They hadn't even declared each other boyfriends yet. "All right," he said, because it was just as much Richard's scar, and to that, Dean was entitled. "But if you're going to love me, can I at least put a name on what's between us?"

"I love you," Dean told him. "I have for a while now. As a friend, as someone I care for, and who has looked after me. I know you have reservations—because of your dreams—to call it anything else. But, I hope someday you'll want to try to reconcile that man you've dreamed about with the man who's standing in front of you."

"You're wrong," Aidan contradicted. Dean loved him. It was a funny feeling, wanting someone that way and being wanted in return. "I'm not afraid because of you in my dreams. It's just," he took a breath, "I'm afraid I could lose you. I'm afraid that someone I really want it to work out with, ends up like the others. Can I just—can I call you boyfriend?"

Dean's face grew noticeably paler. "I... _boyfriend?_ " he chuckled nervously. "I haven't been someone's boyfriend in thirteen years," he said softly, eyes glazing over with a memory that Aidan may or may not have dreamed about. "It was fun, being a boyfriend," he reached up a hand to caress Aidan's cheek. "Yeah, you can call me that, if you want to."

Aidan shifted nervously. "It's okay if you want to call me something else. I just want it to be official. Us." He would say _exclusive_ , but the thought of dating other people had not crossed his mind since Dean, and he was pretty sure Dean hadn't thought about it either. Aidan leaned into the touch and cast his eyes up at the other man.

His boyfriend.

Butterflies awoke in his gut. "Your sunscreen looks good." His voice shook. "I'm not exposing my scar to the sun, but do your want to do my back?"

"Sure," Dean offered, reaching for the bottle. "Turn around. Oh, you're hair's gotten long, too," he leaned forward to sniff at the spot where Aidan's shoulder met his neck and run his nose briefly through the soft curls there. Slowly he worked the lotion across Aidan's shoulders, the soft nape of his neck, and down to the small of his back. "I thought you might be hairier," Dean chuckled. "And we are official... if you want that, Aidan."

"Shaved off in the hospital, and have been lying down for too long," Aidan informed him that it wasn't usually the case. He guided Dean's arms to wrap around his waist, closing his eyes. "Officially mine, and officially yours. Thank you. I know I'm not always the easiest person to be around, but I'll do my best."

Dean lay his head against Aidan's back, and through the warm flesh, he could hear Richard's heart beating steadily.

_Love him,_ the heartbeat said. _Love him, and don't forget me._

Dean smiled, eyes closed, and squeezed Aidan tighter as the late afternoon sunlight streamed over them.

\- - - - -

The sun was starting to sink beyond the horizon when Aidan, stuffed on a good meal at the Curry Garden, urged him and Dean on. "We're almost there! Come on," he said, "only half a mile more." His phone was in his hand, directing them out of town and up to the St. Ives coast.

Having done some research on the internet at last, Aidan knew he wanted to go there. The problem was having a full belly and a dinner that had taken a bit longer than expected. He wasn't about to tell Dean where they were going, he just needed them to walk faster. They wouldn't be in time if they took too long.

He walked up ahead and turned around to smile at Dean. "Last few yards, I promise."

Dean groaned and clutched his stomach. "If I'd have known we were going hiking, I wouldn't have eaten those two extra pieces of naan! Aidan, I swear, you're going to be the death of ... _oh..._ " Dean's voice was lost to him then. 

When they crested the hill, below them, far away over the deep cobalt ocean, the sun was setting, spreading hues of gold, vermillion, pink and tangerine off in all directions. It sparkled over the water. It was magnificent. Dean slid his hand into his back pocket and withdrew his cell phone. He snapped two photos without speaking. Then, he took Aidan's hand and pulled him to a nearby vacant bench where they sat quietly, watching the sun's descent until the last shades of lavender and indigo were gone from the sky.

"Thank you," Dean whispered, eyes on the stars above them.

While Dean admired the evening sky, Aidan was lost on other details. He watched how mesmerized Dean looked at the first stars appearing in the nightly sky, more becoming visible as less light of the sun remained on the island beneath their feet. The coral light that faded into blue cast an otherworldly glow on Dean's skin. Aidan noticed absently how Dean's skin hadn't caught a sunburn that day, but more than that, he understood how precious the man next to him was.

"I love you," Aidan told him.

It took a moment for the words to penetrate Dean's reverie. "Y-you _what?_ " he wondered, eyes huge.

Aidan's lips parted, mortified. Had he said that out loud? Oh god, had he really? "I... I'm sorry," he said. "This is a really bad timing. Forget I said it."

"You love me?" Dean swallowed, and the sound clicked in the stillness. "You love me."

"I love you," Aidan tentatively said in reply. "I do." He knew he had made himself vulnerable by admitting it. At the same time, Dean hadn't started showing signs of pushing Aidan away. He had been patient with Aidan, and most of the time spent together was without physical expectation. It was not how Aidan did relationships, but it was still very special, and it was exactly what had him convinced it was meaningful to Dean. Perhaps it was the right moment, after all.

Dean reached for Aidan's hand and squeezed it tightly. Leaning to the left, he lay his head on Aidan's shoulder. 

"I love you too, Aidan," Dean told him.

Then he started to cry.


	23. It's Like Asking for the Sun and the Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Aidan have a falling out... and another. Then, they sort of make up.

"I'm so sorry," Dean said as he and Aidan strolled back to their hotel, following Lambeth Walk, "about earlier on the hill. I wasn't crying because of what you said. I mean, not because it made me sad."

When it had happened, it had scared Aidan. He still wasn't sure what Dean bursting into tears did mean, but Dean hadn't mentioned it until now, and to hear that it wasn't out of sadness relieved Aidan's stress somewhat. "Why did you?" asked he.

"I was thinking of Richard," Dean told him, wincing even as the words left his lips. "I have since we got here. This was to be our vacation—two whole weeks together. I was doing pretty well at home, with not missing him every second of every day. But once I got here, it hit me again. Taking me up there to see that sunset—well, it's something that Richard would have done, you know. I'm sorry," he murmured, eyes on the sea. "You don't need to hear this. Not right now. Not after what we've just said to one another. I meant it, Aidan. I _do_ love you."

Aidan looked ahead of himself sadly. "We are here because of him. If we didn't plan it, it's still his ashes we are bringing along. It's okay; nobody said this was easy." It was the first time he felt inferior to Richard, and Aidan hated himself for thinking it. "Would it—would it be a good place to scatter his ashes?"

"Up there?" Dean queried. "No... no. I'd like for you and me to go back up there again. And I don't think I can do that if we put Richard's ashes there. He asked for the sea." Dean looked out over the water. "That's where I'll put him. Late at night, so no one asks any questions."

"Could I come?" That was what had Aidan in a bind. Dean had been Richard's partner for life, though Aidan had loved him just as strongly, if not differently. It was also Richard's heart that was keeping him alive. "I understand if you say no. It's just... I need closure too."

"I..." Dean had imagined the moment at which he'd scattered Richard's ashes into the sea. Never had he envisioned Aidan there by his side. If anything, he had envisioned a bottle of whiskey. "Let's wait a few days for that, okay? I'm not ready to be rid of him just yet." He reached for Aidan's hand. "Come on," he beckoned. "Do you smell that? That cinnamon smell? I want to find the source."

"...Yeah, okay." Dean did not notice how hollow his answer made Aidan feel. Aidan had lost his heart to Dean—technically not even his—and he knew he came second. He understood it, of course he did. This was Richard they were talking about, whom Aidan had liked in that special way before they decided on best friends. But Richard would not come back, and Aidan had promised to wait for Dean to be ready.

It certainly wasn't easy.

After being stuffed on a curry, he wasn't interested in anything with cinnamon, but Aidan allowed Dean to take him by the hand and lead him to a bakery at the corner of the street, where they purchased four cinnamon rolls to take home.

Aidan was uncharacteristically quiet and stoic on the way home. Dean knew why. Dean knew he should say something— _anything_ —to assure Aidan. But words wouldn't come.

"I'm not trying to alienate you, Aidan," he said, finally. "It'll be our last moment together. I have things I want to say. Things I never got to say..."

"Does it have to be all or nothing though? A part of him that survived lives on in me, Dean. I have his memories. I have things to say too. He was my best friend. Can't we each say our last words separately and both be there when his ashes are scattered?"

Dean suddenly and inexplicably felt like lashing out. Would Aidan continue to come between him and Richard—even now, in the very end? He wanted to grab Aidan by the collar and shake him. _He was my husband, Aidan! For god's sake, can't you let me have this?_

But he didn't.

"I'm sure we can figure something out," Dean said softly, instead.

Aidan nodded. A quiet disposition grew inside him, one that was both accepting and aware that this was not what Dean wanted. "Thank you." He remained silent while they rode the elevator up to their floor. Upon arriving at his room, he leaned in and kissed Dean shortly on his cheek. "I'm sorry I make things difficult for you." Just by being there, he added sadly in his thoughts. "Goodnight, Dean."

"Aidan," Dean sighed softly as the brunet retreated quickly to his room. This was not how the night was supposed to go. Not at all. But at the same time he was relieved not to have those dark eyes watching him, dissecting and questioning his every word. And it gave him the opportunity to slip into the hot tub on the balcony outside his room.

From the room next to him came a rustling sound, then the faint sound of fingers tapping on a laptop keyboard. It was all he got from Aidan that night.

The curtains were drawn for a reason. On a bed that was too large for him alone, Aidan sat with his legs pulled up under him and the outline of what was to be his first novel in front of him. He meant to work on refining the details, to see where the story could improve. His hands were however not moving.

When they did, they deleted the entire outline, saved the file on a whim, then closed it before he could change his mind.

Aidan was going to write a novel to be published under Richard's name, just as everything else he did would now be cast in his dead best friend's shadow. He was going to live a life dictated by the most precious gift he had received on his death bed, but which had snatched away his own life all the same. He dreamed Richard's dreams, he recollected his memories when he didn't want to, and he had fallen in love with the man in Richard's heart.

If something in there was still him, what did it matter? He was turning into a copy of someone else. Someone that everyone did like. Someone that wasn't him.

A bitterness grew in his chest for the way his life was turning out to be. He breathed out, stared at the screen. Then, regardless of his love for writing having been Richard-born, Aidan opened a new text file and jotted down anything that came to mind—personal things—until he stopped and turned to the clock, and it was two in the morning.

\- - - - -

Dean awoke at dawn. He had left the door to his balcony open and chilly morning air was coming through the screen. He hurried from bed to shut it, then huddled back under the covers. If anyone had told him on that cold night in January when he'd made the reservations for this trip that he would be lying in bed shivering while his dead husband’s ashes were in an urn on the table, he would have laughed at them.

But the reality was far less humorous. And he had hurt Aidan's feelings—the only other person in the world who truly understood what he was going through. With a sad sigh, he rolled over, hugging the spare pillow tightly, until he warmed back up and drifted back to sleep.

When Dean woke again, he had missed breakfast. Aidan had not. He had gone into the hotel restaurant alone, sent a message by phone to ease his bad conscience, and had had a bowl of cereal and fruit by himself. Aidan was not in a mood to deal with anyone, that morning, if only because people expected things from him that weren't his.

He felt worse when breakfast passed and Dean hadn't come out of his room. He fetched his wallet and went out for a walk to the bakery, bought fresh bread and some cheese, and felt better about that until he was again faced with Dean's closed door. He sighed.

At long last Aidan carried the bread into his own room, where he put it in the cupboard. He fell into his bed lifelessly—and winced when the stupid wound didn't agree.

Aidan was tired of this trip.

Dean was getting out of the shower when he heard sounds from the room next door. It sounded like the bed frame knocking against the wall. He picked up his cell, alarmed to see the missed text from his friend.

_Gone to breakfast,_ it read. That had been three hours earlier.

"Fuck," Dean said quietly, and sent to him. _I'm sorry. I overslept. Got in hot tub when we got home and it really relaxed me. You should come try it with me tonight. You want to come over?_

It took ten minutes before Aidan replied.

_Not in the mood. I got some bread from the bakery, if you're hungry._

The damage had been done. Dean knew it.

_I ruined last night,_ Dean texted back. _I'm so sorry, Aidan. But I can't stop thinking about him._

Aidan cried when he read it. He had suspected it. To hear Dean voice it at last made it final. That was it, then. Richard was still the person with the first claim on Dean's heart. He most likely would always be.

_I'm going to stop waiting,_ he sent in reply. It broke his heart when he did. _I'm sorry._ Aidan had thought this would be it—the one relationship to go right. He couldn't fight someone who was dead though. He was tired of all the ways in which Richard was turning into a negative influence on his life. _His ashes are yours._

Dean stared at the cell phone in disbelief. "Aidan, they were always mine," he whispered. "Please, don't do this to me. I just need to say goodbye to him."

But he didn't text back. What was there to say?

Still wearing only the towel he had wrapped around his waist after his shower, Dean sat down at the small table upon which he'd placed the beautiful glass urn containing Richard's cremains. "What do I do now?" he asked, cradling the shiny blue container, and laying his head down on its lid. "Richard, what do I do?"

\- - - - 

The next few days were painfully awkward. Dean tried to give Aidan his space, and succeeded, for the most part. St. Ives, though not a large town, had plenty of nooks and crannies to explore. He carefully avoided the book and antique stores. Richard would have wanted to spend hours in there, and Dean couldn't bear the thought. Dean walked so much that his feet ached at the end of each day, and he found solace in the hot tub.

He also took his sketch pad with him, and had drawn a number of people and places as he sat drinking iced coffee or the rare cocktail. On the last page of his sketch pad, he'd begun working on _Ra_. Ra, if Aidan ever consented to sit for him again, would be unexpected. He was going to paint Ra against a sunset—one that rivaled the one Aidan had taken him to see.

Ra would be watching the sun go down, content writ on his face. _My work here is ended._ That's what the look would imply. _And now, who knows what might happen next?_

He only wished he knew the right words to say to Aidan.

Whereas Dean had tried to find distraction outside, Aidan stuck to the confines of his hotel room, with occasionally his laptop and occasionally his diary as his only means of expanding his mind. He missed London, where he could escape in many ways. St. Ives had its charm, but Aidan didn't want to go out and run the risk of catching sight of Dean. When the morning after he still hadn't received a reply, something had been broken.

He blamed himself for his stupidity. He should never have started something with Dean. In so many ways Dean would never be free of Richard. It wasn't what Aidan needed him to be, but he did need a heart that still had space enough to hold him inside. 

Then his second mistake had been telling Dean he loved him. It was supposed to cement their relationship. Instead it had all come down like a house of cards. But had he not seen that coming, if he had been honest with himself? It was how good things always ended.

So Aidan stuck to writing and counting the minutes. He had dinner delivered through room service, and he did not open the door to the balcony even when the view was welcoming him outside on the second day.

On the third, he had reprimanded himself for being a hermit enough to go outside for breakfast.

Dean was in the cafe, sitting along the wall overlooking the sea. His back was turned towards the rest of the restaurant. His sketch pad rested on the wall in front of him and he was drawing intently. A nearly untouched plate of eggs and sausage, and a Bloody Mary, sat next to of him on the table.

Aidan winced when he saw him. It would have been easier if it was Dean finding Aidan there; now it meant Aidan had to take the first step.

They lived together, Aidan reminded himself. Dean and he would share a house until that time when Dean found a place of his own, which was some days at least. Aidan couldn't afford to ignore him, regardless of how badly he wanted to. And so, sorting himself a mismatching arrangement of food for breakfast, he sucked it up and took the seat next to Dean.

Aidan still avoided Dean's gaze, instead focusing on his plate.

"Hey," Dean said quietly. "I think today might be the nicest weather we've had so far."

Aidan looked out over the water. The wind was not as strong as earlier days, he saw, and the sun was mild but there. "Ah. I guess you're right."

"We should go to the beach," Dean suggested over the rim of his drink.

At last Aidan looked at him. He wished he hadn't. Dean looked terrible. Except, Aidan smiled softly, "What do you know, you picked up a tan."

"A little," Dean admitted, with a small shrug. "I've been exploring. What have you been up to?"

"Sleeping. Writing. Dumb stuff on YouTube," shrugged Aidan. "Going outside sounds like a nice plan." He cut off a piece from his rolled up pancake, and reached for his milk to swallow it down.

He wanted to ask if Richard's remains had yet been scattered, but Aidan didn't want to really know the answer.

"I'm sorry I've been so selfish," Dean told him, poking his eggs with his fork, but not eating. "I've always been selfish where Richard is concerned."

"You love him," Aidan said over his coffee with as much detachment as he could muster up. He wanted to cry. "I get it."

"He's _gone_ , Aidan," Dean reminded him of the obvious. "He's gone and we're still here. I love you, and I fucked it up."

They had gone only a few sentences until reaching the crux of it all. With his fork poking at his breakfast, Aidan did his best to keep calm. He hated these talks. "I love you, but I don't want this," said he. "He's gone, but he's not. I can't live like this, Dean."

"We can't change anything, Aidan," Dean said sadly. "A big part of me still wishes I had died with him."

Aidan looked at him sadly. "You don't mean that. I'm happy you didn't. But you're wrong if you think we can't change anything. I'm going to."

"What do you mean? What are you going to do?" Dean wondered.

"I don't know. Therapy? Clean slate? Whatever works, if it gets his voice out of my head. I'm tired of it."

Dean's head tilted to the side inquisitively. "You hear his voice?"

"Figuratively speaking."

They were a pathetic pair, the two of them. That Dean was still a wreck was understandable, but all the world dictated that this should be easier on Aidan. He felt like his life was being taken over. "I'm tired, Dean. People who didn't like me before, like me since I got his heart. Every happy memory of love that I've got comes from him. It's not me. I'm just the host. I get to sit here and watch while he makes new memories. I want to be me again."

"Aidan, you _are_ you," Dean assured him. "You have changed a little, sure. But so does everyone who has a brush with death," Dean posited. "The people who you claim like you now but never did before... well, it's because they never took the time to. I know this, because I'm one of them," he smiled ruefully. "You may have Richard's heart in your chest, and you may feel as if you're turning into him, but I swear to you, you aren't. If you were, I'd be avoiding you, because I wouldn't be able to bear it. I like you as you are, Aidan. I love you, as you are."

Aidan snorted. "You don't know half of it." Dean could say he loved him, but Aidan came second regardless. "I'm quitting Coventry," he said. "If Martin wants it, he can have it."

"B-But you've only just begun!" Dean exclaimed, pushing his plate away. "Why?"

"I refuse to publish under his name," Aidan suddenly snapped. "Enough of me is no longer my own."

"Then don't. Publish under your own name, Aidan."

Aidan stilled. "But I was to be a ghost writer, wasn't I? How would that—"

"Richard is dead, Aidan," Dean told him. "If his fans don't know it already, they'll find out soon enough. Richard asked you to ghostwrite, it's true. But it doesn't mean you have to write as Richard. I have the legal rights to his work and the royalties. I'm the one who'd have to give you permission."

Aidan stared at him. "Are you serious? And you tell me now? I deleted my outline, because I—shit, seriously? Of course I want to. It's Richard's heritage. But I can't write it as him. I can't hide behind his name. I love him, don't get me wrong, but I—" He angrily pushed his tears away. "I am so done with living his life and still coming second, Dean."

Dean didn't know what to say. He cared for Aidan, and he had struggled showing him that. The past week had been especially difficult, admittedly, but Dean had hoped that Aidan didn't think he was brushing him aside.

Hands shaking, Dean reached into his wallet and withdrew two ten-pound notes, placing them on the table. "I'm sorry, Aidan. I can't say it enough. You are not him. And he was not you. If you're trying to be him, please don't. No one expects you to be Richard. Be _you._ " Dean folded shut his sketch pad, when all he really wanted to do was share with Aidan his plans for Ra.

He felt chilled and a bit sick. "I hope I never made you feel that I wanted you to turn into Richard," Dean said softly. "I'm sorry if I did. Breakfast is on me," he said, sweeping up his two charcoal pencils and hurrying out of the cafe.

Aidan was left in the restaurant, alone at his table with the view that Dean had wanted to go out into with him. That wouldn't happen, Aidan thought miserably. From an inkling of good news and a carefully improving mood, he sat again by himself.

But at least there had been improvement. They had talked. Aidan would try to salvage his friendship with Dean. He didn't want to lose that too.

He finished his meal, returned to his room to fetch some things, and decided to go out by himself. It was a nice day, after all, and he wanted to do more on his own.

Dean had taken his Kindle and sketch pad with him to the beach. In a feeble attempt to do something—anything—to take his mind off what troubled him, he made a half-hearted attempt at drawing the lighthouse at the end of the pier that he could see from his chair. But when the image clouded over with tears, he gave up, tossing the charcoal back in his bag.

Dean groaned inwardly. This was just what Aidan did. Aidan liked to make everything about himself. Dean had conveniently forgotten that while falling in love with him. With an exasperated sigh, he pulled out his sunscreen, smearing some haphazardly over his shoulders and chest, and a bit on his face. It didn't feel nearly as nice as when Aidan had done it.

The urge to pack up his things and drive back home was strong. He missed Adam, and their talks during cooking class. He missed Martin, and his logical analysis of Dean's many neuroses. When he did go home, Dean realized, he was going to have to start looking for an apartment.

He couldn't bear to be around Aidan right now. Aidan was a grown man. Accepting a donor organ couldn't turn him into anyone. He was putting too much pressure on himself. It showed.

This was supposed to be a vacation—a time to rest and recharge. It had turned into just the opposite. This was the last thought to cross Dean's mind before he dozed off in the warm sun.

Aidan did come across him, an hour after the start of his walk. Dean had not lied, it was a day meant to be enjoyed in the outdoors. With his phone in his back pocket for directions and a small notebook for scribbling things down, Aidan had decided to go on a long walk that would bring him miles outside of St. Ives. His condition was good enough to put to the test.

Unlike the morning in the restaurant, he chose a detour as soon as he noticed Dean.

Ten minutes later, he sighed exasperated and returned to at least instate a few shadows around Dean. "Don't you dare turn a lobster on me now," he muttered to the sleeping form, and scrambled before Dean could wake up.

Aidan only returned to his room at ten in the evening.

Dean was sitting out on the balcony when he heard the sliding glass door that led to Aidan's balcony opening. A six pack of beer, half of its contents downed, sat nearby, and Dean sat staring out over the water. He raised a hand in greeting. "You were gone a long time," he stated the obvious.

"Forgot I was a heart patient." Aidan found himself the most comfortable spot he could fall into bonelessly and be good for an hour and a half. "Went for a walk, got out of breath, spent an hour under a tree." He tried to make it sound like nothing had happened, and started to peel an orange from the net he bought that afternoon. "Want one?"

"Sure," Dean reached for the fruit. "Thanks." He studied Aidan out of the corner of his eye. "Are you feeling better now?"

"I'll survive." It was one thing Aidan took pride in. "I went to Zennor today. It's a village not far off." But Dean had read the map, so he probably knew that. "It's nice. What did you do today?"

"I vegged on the beach," Dean shrugged one shoulder, then winced as it pulled at his sunburn. "I found a really nice restaurant and had dinner there. I've never had more tender scallops." He was quiet for a moment, working on peeling the orange. "It would have been nicer if you were with me."

Aidan smiled to himself. "Thanks." He peeled his own orange, taking his time. "Do you reckon they have takeout? I haven't had anything other than fruit since lunch." Which hadn't been bad, except now that Dean was talking about it, Aidan's stomach rumbled at the sound of a savory meal. "I've been thinking today. About all sorts of stupid things, really. Who was that guy flirting with Martin on game night?"

"That was Benedict. He's a writer too. Martin's nuts about him. Not that he'd admit it, of course. The restaurant's closed, sadly. But we could probably get a pizza delivered. Want me to call?"

From the other balcony, he got an ugly face in reply. "Pizza. Maybe it's all the oranges, but I'm really not in the mood for pizza. Is there a place with seafood nearby? I'm okay with chips." Aidan looked at Dean. "Martin likes someone? Martin 'don't you dare set me up with someone, I have no interest anyway' Freeman?" He laughed. "That's good for him. For a while I thought you were rooting for him and Adam, but then Jimmy happened, so... well, doesn't matter now. That's really nice."

Dean pulled out his cell phone and pushed a few buttons. "There's a spot a couple blocks away that sells seafood, and they're open 'til midnight. Want to go?"

"Midnight?" Aidan stretched. "All right. But give me fifteen minutes. My bones are either goo, or running the risk of giving up any moment now." He rolled onto his side on the padded sofa, which gave him a better view of Dean. "I won't be long. What have they got?"

"Well, they claim it's all fresh from the sea," Dean scrolled with his index finger. "Crab, lobster, clams, fish of the day, shrimp, of course, scallops... yeah, they have it all. Broiled, fried, baked. Fresh veggies and signature gourmet macaroni and cheeses. Well, shit. I'm getting hungry again," he grinned.

Not knowing if it was the walk that had been good for him, or simply to talk with Dean again, Aidan laughed. "Well, what's keeping you? We'll buy the lot and eat so much we won't be able to stand. We're on a holiday."

"If I get sick," Dean held up a finger in warning, "you will have to deal with me. It's called The Mermaid," Dean told him. 

His terms were accepted with grace, and Aidan kept to his word. Some fifteen minutes after, he got up, stretched his limbs, and fetched his shoes. His feet were numb from the mileage of the day and his eyes tired, but his protesting stomach was louder—as was his improving mood.

Upon walking out the hotel room, he found Dean waiting for him there. Aidan was entertained with the impulsiveness of it all. Sometimes he forgot that his old life had consisted of random hunts for food just the same. Somehow, tonight was more adventurous. "Ready to stuff yourself?"

"I'm still stuffed from earlier," Dean confided. "But the description of the jalapeno macaroni and cheese really got my attention," he patted his stomach. "I'm sure the walk will help me make room for more. Are you sure you're up for this?"

Up close, Aidan could see that Dean's face was more than a little pink from his time in the sun. Aidan refrained from commenting on it though. He caught himself thinking it was rather adorable, but didn't know what to do with that thought. Life had been a roller coaster the last few days. He padded to the elevator, not in a hurry. "I'm sure. It's not four miles or more from the hotel, is it?"

"Looks like two blocks," Dean smiled mischievously. "I can carry you for maybe one of them, if I have to."

"Remind me to cause a fuss on the way back," grinned Aidan from ear to ear. He had slipped his wallet in his back pocket, and fully intended to pay the bill this time around. They hadn't gotten to celebrate him getting the part, which meant that very soon now, Aidan was going to start earning his own money again. The idea of financial independence made him want to treat Dean tonight.

He had the scallops and a plate with chips for himself. It amused Aidan to keep adding some of his chips to Dean's plate when it wasn't paying attention. "You're slow," he commented halfway through.

"I'll get sick if I eat much more," Dean sighed in satisfaction, running his finger around the rim of the medium-sized ramekin that contained his macaroni and cheese. "As it stands, I'll be in a carb coma for the next two days. Aidan," he reached for Aidan's hand and squeezed it. "Come to my room tonight. Let's soak in the hot tub. I want you to tell me about your dreams."

"Oh, can we please not talk about the dreams tonight?" Aidan's face bore a comically pleading expression, but he was very serious. "I was having such a good night. I promise I'll come over if you don't bring up the dreams, okay?"

"Okay," Dean agreed easily, "but one thing first about the dreams, then I'll shut up. You say the dreams scare you. Well, they scare me too, Aidan. If you're dreaming from Richard's perspective and seeing things through his eyes... well, I'm not going to be that same man you're dreaming about. I'm not perfect, and I'm not always sexy and I'm not beautiful. So, I don't want you thinking that I have _any_ expectations from you."

"... It's just a hot tub, Dean." Aidan was afraid to delve deeper into that. It was so easy to interpret Dean's words as expecting they were about to have sex, except they were no longer together. It was a precarious balance.

Dean scoffed. "I don't mean _right now_ ," he clarified. "I mean in general. In case you haven't figured it out, I'm complicated," he grinned.

"Yeah, I got that far," Aidan chuckled, relieved about the answer. "Don't worry, I won't comment on any part of you, as long as you refrain from commenting on me."

They returned to the hotel in one piece, though both with a heavy stomach.

"I'll be right with you," Aidan said, before disappearing into his own room.

Dean slipped into the bathroom to freshen up a bit and change back into his swim trunks. He stared at himself in the mirror, lamenting having not worn enough sunscreen that afternoon. At least the heat from the hot tub would turn their skin pink and camouflage his sunburn.

When Aidan knocked a few minutes later, Dean had lit a couple of candles and set them around the edge of the hot tub. He put two bottle of water within their reach.

"Hey," he greeted his housemate nervously. 

"Hi!" Aidan was wearing his bathrobe and carrying his towel. "I was thinking, maybe we could get into the tub later? My stomach is really full, and—are those candles?"

"You know me," Dean smiled, locking the door behind Aidan. "I'm happier around an open flame."

"It's June," Aidan reminded him—warm enough to have candles be a nice touch and completely pointless for heat. He sat down on Dean's bed, because it was the only place where he could fall back and stretch. "Going for food was fun," said he, "but god, my stomach can't handle bubbles right now."

"Oh, all right then," Dean nodded. "I'll be right back." He went out to the balcony, where he turned off the bubbling mechanism of the hot tub and blew out the four candles. What was he thinking was going to happen anyway? He sighed sadly, looking out longingly over the lights twinkling on the water, then went back inside. "What do you want to do?" he asked Aidan.

"Well, hot tub later," Aidan smiled. He did notice the dejected look on Dean's face. Aidan was conflicted about his feelings of wanting to make it right. He couldn't let that happen, not now. "Just lying here is good for now though. We can watch TV or talk."

The room had only the one king-sized bed, and Aidan was currently lying on it. "Okay." Dean plopped down next to him, then lay his head back on the pillows. As soon as he did, he felt the two large meals and a long day of lazing in the sun catching up with him. He yawned.

"It's tiring, this vacationing business," he smiled.

With his arms between his head and the pillow, Aidan agreed. "Me, I'm just lazy. I've had a good walk and a good meal. It's been a perfect vacation day." He tilted his head to the side. "Sorry for not talking to you for a few days. We should have done this much sooner."

"I deserved it, I suppose," Dean admitted. "It's not fair, comparing you to Richard. I hadn't meant to, I swear."

"I didn't ignore you out of punishment. It just... hurt, I suppose. There's nothing you can do about it." Aidan nudged him. "I'll be damned if this is going to make strangers out of us though. You're a good person. It'll be awkward for a while, but we can be friends. Hey, at least we tried, right?"

Dean bit his lip and looked away, sadly. "So that's it then? You're just... giving up on me? On _us?_ "

"I'm accepting defeat," Aidan replied. "It's not the same thing. I do love you, you know. It's just not enough."

"Love is _everything!_ " Dean cried, rolling to face Aidan. "What's wrong with you?"

Affronted by the unexpected accusation, Aidan created more distance between them in what he knew were the first bricks of the wall once again being built up around him. "What's wrong with me? Love is nothing if it's not returned. Don't give me that. Love is a very selfish thing. It's a dream very few can hold onto."

"You've been unlucky in love—a lot," Dean reminded him of the obvious. "You have every reason to be cautious. But you are letting that caution, and your fear of being rejected, stand in the way of getting what you want, Aidan."

Aidan didn't appreciate being told how he felt. "I know what I want. That doesn't mean I'll get to have it. It's like asking for the sun and the moon."

Dean had no idea how to respond. "I feel sorry for you," is what came out of his mouth. 

His words were unanticipated and disarming. Dean could see the walls crumbling, until tears welled up in the ruins of Aidan's defense. "That's not fair. That's not fucking fair, Dean, when you know it's because of you."

"Aidan," Dean reached for him, laying a tentative hand on his arm. "I'm _right here._ I'm right here with you. And I love you. I can only conclude that you don't believe me when I say it. Or that you don't want this as much as I do."

Aidan sniffed away his tears unceremoniously, but they kept coming. He was a pitiful ball curled at the edge of the bed. "You love Richard more. And I get that, I do, but I'm selfish. I can't be with someone who loves someone else more. It's no way to have a relationship. It'll eat at me until I'm an insecure mess."

"Richard is _not_ in competition with you, Aidan," Dean sniffled. "He's gone. He's not coming back. I will always love him. Nothing can change that. Would you really want to be with someone who just jumped into bed with you after his husband died, without a care?"

"I don't see—why would you say that? That's not what you did."

"And I wouldn't," Dean told him. "But I do love you, Aidan. And I want to be intimate with you. I've wanted to for a while now. I've been waiting, afraid to do anything, because I want you to respect me. I want to respect myself."

Aidan didn't understand. "Of course I respect you. I wouldn't bother with all of this if I didn't. I just... can't be second to someone in a relationship. I said I'd wait for that, but then you said you couldn't stop thinking about Richard. God, I hate myself for saying this, but he's really turned everything into a mess."

"There's a reason why some people who lose their spouses never remarry," Dean sighed. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I'm meant to stay single. Richard wouldn't want that. _I_ don't want that. The loneliness is crushing me. These past few days have been.... well, torture."

The other man bit his lip. "I don't want that either. Rematch? Not like a warm body. You'll have to want me as Aidan as much as I, Aidan, want you. If we get there, will we try again?"

"I want to, Aidan," Dean reached over and pushed a stubborn curl away from Aidan's eyes. "More than anything."

Aidan closed his eyes and breathed out. "We're hopeless, aren't we?"

"No," Dean moved closer to him. He reached for Aidan's hand and pulled the other man over to rest his head on Dean's chest. Dean wrapped his arms around him. "No, we aren't, Aidan."

The other man's breath evened out into a slow rise and fall of his chest. Aidan was too tired to warn Dean he was falling asleep. As was he too comfortable to risk losing his human pillow by responding. They weren't halfway there yet, he thought while his mind became less coherent and his short term memory spotty. Maybe they would never get there.

He curled up against Dean's warm form in but a bathrobe and swimming trunks.

Aidan would try.


	24. A Stupid Amount of Happiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Aidan finally become intimate. Dean has second thoughts and can't sleep.

Aidan spent the night in Dean's bed. The next morning was a little awkward, but awkward was something they were well accustomed to by that point.

After that, they began spending more time together. They rented scooters and rode through the streets. They took a ride on the St. Ives Bay Line and visited the Tate Gallery. Aidan learned that Dean knew the owner. He was also, he told them, one of the people to have placed a bid on _Osiris,_ but had not won. Dean was told that the buyer wished to remain anonymous. Surprisingly, Dean wasn't very rattled by that—especially once the check arrived.

They walked the streets of St. Ives and got to know several of the shopkeepers and restaurateurs by name. 

"I could live here," Dean told Aidan, two nights before they were to depart for home. "But only if it stayed summer all year round." 

In the dark of Dean's unlit balcony—Aidan liked the glow of the stars on the water of the sea, and not much else—Aidan hummed. "I've only just become a house owner. I can't be thinking about summer houses yet," Aidan smiled. "But it's nice here. More than I expected from Cornwall. Maybe next time we can go up to Scotland and see what that's like. I'll bring my laptop and you should bring your kitchen equipment we can write and dine in the highlands. I've never been to Scotland. Not the place where you had a house anyway. Or maybe Ireland. Have you been to Ireland?"

A sea breeze gusted up over them and Dean hugged himself against the chill. "Does Ireland have nice beaches?" he wondered. He was suddenly struck with an image of cooking hot dogs over a campfire with Aidan's parents. 

"The best. Colder and wetter, but the artist in you is going to love them. And then there are the incredible people, of course. Unrivaled in all of the world."

Dean smiled fondly. "I hope you'll take me there someday."

"You just need to stick around and I inevitably will." Aidan finished his beer. He poured himself another and lay back in the tipped chair. "In a couple of days I'll start filming," he said. "It's been half a year, can you imagine? I've got a massive scar on my chest and I need a double for horseback riding, but they picked me."

"They had no choice," Dean said resolutely. "If you read for them the way you read for me at home, it was meant to be, Aidan." He chuckled. "I can't believe my boyfriend is a TV star." He got up and pulled his chair closer to Aidan's, so that their thighs were brushing. "Ah, it's warmer over here. I expected as much."

"Well, not a TV star just yet. The show can still be badly received." In the dark, Aidan tried to discern Dean's features. "You know, _boyfriend_ is a title that comes with expectations," he mused. They hadn't officially gotten back together, although they were walking along the edge since the day they made up. "Do you think you can live up to those expectations?"

"I will, if you let me try," Dean frowned, nudging Aidan with his bare foot. "What do you expect, right now?"

Aidan's grin grew Cheshire. "A shoulder massage would be really nice."

"Shirt on or off?" Dean challenged him.

Aidan gave him a look. "Back massage with shirt on? Really?"

"I meant me. _My_ shirt," Dean chuckled. "Can we go inside, though? It's getting cold out here."

"Oh. Well, whatever you want," Aidan shrugged, attempting to pass it off as nonchalance. He very much liked Dean to take off his shirt, he was simply afraid it would be too soon.

He got back inside, wriggled out of his own shirt and got comfortable on the bed while he waited for Dean.

"Does it hurt anywhere specific?" Dean asked after closing the balcony door and sliding the curtain across, giving them privacy. He pulled his own t-shirt off over his head and tossed it on the table next to Richard's urn.

Aidan gave him a smile over his shoulder, before he closed his eyes and stretched like a cat. "Doesn't hurt anywhere. I just haven't had a good massage in ages."

"Who says I give a good massage?" Dean joked nervously. Truth was, he was anxious to get his hands on Aidan's warm skin. He got onto the bed and slid up close behind Aidan, putting a hand on his mid back and the other on his shoulder. Aidan was very warm.

Dean however was not. Aidan gasped under the cold hands. "H-hey!" He had meant for it to be a tease towards Dean, and then a tryout to see if he was any good at it. But here Aidan was trying to get used to the cold hands—or for the cold hands to warm up—while trying to take control over his system warming up in other ways. "Just... just go with it?" he asked. 

"All right," Dean blew warm air onto his hands in an attempt to warm them, then carefully dug his thumbs into the spot between Aidan's shoulder blades. It was this spot on Dean's body where he carried most of his own tension. "If it hurts, stop me."

After having overcompensated for his wound on his chest by keeping his back straight for months, Aidan's back had become fairly muscled—and very tense. He was riddled with knots just under his skin. It surprised Aidan the most. He had thought just to get a nice back rub, while enjoying Dean's hands on him in a fairly safe way, but instead he groaned at every knot that was kneaded out. "I need to go out more," he said to himself. "God almighty, Dean."

"Am I hurting you?" Dean paused, pulling his hands away. "Maybe the hot tub would be better for your back."

"No, no, it's a good hurt. It's—fuck, I didn't know I actually needed a massage. Keep going?"

"O— _kay,_ " Dean agreed hesitatingly, and continued working on each knot he found. For such a laid back individual, Aidan had a remarkable amount of muscle tension in his back. Dean had to resist the strong temptation to lean in and kiss the spot where Aidan's neck and shoulder met. He got to his knees behind Aidan for better leverage, leaning over to sniff Aidan's hair, letting the soft strands tickle his skin.

Aidan stretched under him; if he didn't, he'd shiver, and Dean would find out exactly what this was doing to him. Aidan tried to suppress it. They were sort of official again as of fifteen minutes ago. It was way too soon.

Was it, though? They had been maneuvering in circles for months, and while Aidan had been waiting for the guarantee that Dean was devoted enough not to keep thinking of Richard, that which made the most impact was continuously postponed for a time better suited. Aidan breathed out under Dean's hands. He didn't care what the reasons had been for stopping them before. Tonight, he wanted more.

A hitch in Aidan's breathing made Dean pause again. "I'd like," he leaned down and whispered in Aidan's ear, "to touch you in other spots... if that's all right."

"Does it require me taking off more?" Aidan asked in a moment of daring. He was, oh so subtly, writhing under Dean's hands already.

"Not right away," Dean whispered, warm breath on Aidan's cheek. "I want to bury my hands in your hair. May I do that?"

Aidan warmed at the simple request. "Sure." He turned his head to lean on the pillow on his forehead. Dean was the first to ask for something humble when he was offered more.

For months, Dean had longed to really feel Aidan's hair. Not the sarcastic smacks and pats they had exchanged, but to luxuriate in the texture of those curls. Did they feel as damp as they always looked? 

Dean started slowly at the nape of Aidan's neck, fingers of his right hand caressing Aidan's scalp and feeling the soft curls surrounding the extremity. The hair was thick, but impossibly soft. "Oh," he whispered. "It's nothing like I imagined."

"You've imagined things about my hair?" smiled Aidan. Sometimes, the fingers were ticking, and his skin would turn into a landscape of goosebumps, but other times it was very pleasant. "What else have you imagined?"

"Well," Dean breathed, curling a lock around his index finger. "That's personal information isn't it? Like your dreams," he whispered in Aidan's ear, lips lingering for longer than was necessary. "But if you're extra good, I might share _one_ fantasy with you."

Aidan was quite done with waiting, and turned around under Dean enough to capture him in a kiss. His teeth teased, and his lips played with his boyfriend's like a game of cat and mouse, while their position gave him more to imagine. "If I'm extra good," he whispered between them, "what does that mean?"

When Aidan flipped over, the two of them were in such close proximity that neither of them could hide his erection from the other. Dean laughed softly at the predicament. "I don't know what I meant," he told Aidan. "I'm really nervous and saying really stupid things."

And yet, straddling Aidan's hips as he was, it was painfully easy to lean over and kiss him some more, all the while slowly easing himself to a sitting position across Aidan's pelvis.

Aidan thought Dean was adorable—until Dean sat down on him, and nothing was innocent about their situation any longer. Aidan let his guard down and allowed the man to kiss him until they both ran out of breath. His stomach was doing flips, whereas lower regions cried for the attention. He wanted this without reservation. It was as beautiful as it was wholeheartedly only Aidan who thought that—no auxiliary memories to ruin the fun. "Take off my pants?" asked he hotly.

"I will," Dean smiled crookedly, "but only if I can do whatever I want to you once they've gone."

His fingers toyed with the button at the top of Aidan's denim shorts.

Aidan shook his head. "Not until you tell me what you plan. I'm not agreeing to the terms before knowing what they are."

Dean snorted. "Seems to me _you're_ the one keen on having his knickers removed..."

Aidan kissed him again. "I'm not keen on surprises," he admitted honestly, "sorry." Bad experiences had made him wary of people who thought they could do whatever they wanted. Aidan was going to allow Dean there eventually—when they were more comfortable around each other naked. "Please just kiss me?"

"Well..." Dean bit at his own lip. "All right. But... I swear I wasn't going to do anything awful."

A kiss was offered to the skin of Dean's neck to persuade him to forget it. "I know you wouldn't. This is just paranoid me. I'd still really like you to take them off, if you want."

Dean smiled.

"I've never been terribly _adventurous_ when it comes to sex, Aidan—but I do know how to do it," he reminded him. With a deft flip of his wrist, he popped the button on Aidan's shorts, then slid down the zipper.

Aidan forgot to reply. His eyes were on Dean's hands, his anticipation ratcheting. He was absently grateful for the hotel's quality control. The bed did not creak under his squirming and the walls were solid enough not to bother anyone else, which gave them true privacy and made it so neither of them could be distracted by anything or anyone other than themselves. His breath hitched while Dean worked on his pants.

He raised his hips off the bed when he needed, and felt bare when the clothing came off. "You too," asked he.

When Dean caught his first glimpse of that dark thatch of hair between Aidan's thighs, and the very alert cock jutting from it, he shivered. He hadn't given any thought to how big Aidan's dick might be. It was bigger, however, than he'd expected. Unconsciously, he licked his lips in anticipation.

Dean hadn't been naked in front of anyone but Richard since 1999, except for maybe a few cursory checkups from his doctor. But Aidan asked him to reciprocate. To refuse would be rude. He got up from the bed and pushed out of his plaid shorts and white briefs, then climbed back into bed beside Aidan.

"May I touch?" Dean asked, reaching towards the foot of the bed and pulling a soft, warm beige blanket up over their feet and legs.

Aidan rolled onto his side to meet him. It struck him that Dean hid half of them under a blanket, and he wondered if it was insecurity or simply being cold.

If it was the first, he planned on getting rid of that before the night was over. "You can touch," allowed he, his pupils blown as much as he craved the intimacy, while his fingers danced along Dean's jaw. "You're beautiful. Is it—can I touch too?"

"If you don't," Dean told him, eyes impossibly large, "I might die. Of course, I might die if you do." His hand slid along the length of Aidan's torso and down his hip, circling around to tentatively grasp Aidan's cock. 

A sigh let him know how badly Aidan had been waiting for that. Aidan initiated a slow kiss, while allowing Dean to map his body just as he soon set a hand on its path down between them. He loved the compact firmness of his boyfriend. There was nothing that discouraged him. In fact, there was simply nothing that was not perfect.

When he reached the hairline running further south, he smiled and rolled them over. This brought him straddling Dean, with their cocks very much touching.

"Mmm," Dean smiled dreamily. "I'm ashamed to say that if we continue like this, I'm going to come all too quickly."

Aidan chuckled. He rubbed his groin down against Dean's. "I really don't care. There'll be a next time. Unless you want me to go very, very slow. Do you?"

"Absolutely not," Dean told him immediately. "I want... mhm," he groaned as Aidan, encouraged, rubbed their cocks together. "I want you do whatever you want with me. I don't care if it's something from your dreams—or something new."

"That would be showing a lack of imagination," Aidan purred. He leaned down to kiss his smaller boyfriend, then whispered, "Stay where you are. And don't be afraid to tell me if you don't like it."

It took some uncoordinated trouble to get it right, but at last Aidan had turned himself around, still on his knees atop of Dean, and his rear blocked Dean's view of what he was doing. A hand wrapped around the Dean's cock. It didn't move. Instead, a wetness unexpectedly enveloped it.

Dean let out a pleasured gasp. The twin orbs of Aidan's behind were right in front of him. Writhing in pleasure from Aidan's hot, talented mouth, he reached out and put a hand on each of them. Aidan was fuzzy, he noted, and he had a very firm ass. The smell of him was all around Dean, who slid his right hand around in front and could just reach Aidan's cock. It was impossibly hard, and leaking. His other hand caressed Aidan's sack, where the hair was as inviting to the touch as the hair on Aidan's head. When Aidan' swallowed around his dick, Dean squeezed his cock and began stripping it in time with Aidan's sucking.

Aidan emitted a sound of startled protest, which thrummed against Dean's meat, before Aidan let out what was undeniably a noise of pleasure. He committed himself to offering as much as he could give Dean, taking him in deep and swallowing. It was a game between them as much as it was worship.

Dean wasn't ordinary in any way. His scent turned Aidan on further, and the erection under him promised much fun. All of this would have been enough for Aidan, if not for the hand around him. The hand, well, the hand was simply divine. "I have lube in my bag," Aidan said, want it?"

Dean put a stilling hand on Aidan's flank. "Don't you dare leave this bed," he responded, nuzzling at the inside of Aidan's thigh. Dean lamented being shorter than Aidan. "If you get up on your knees a bit more, I can return the favor. I'd like nothing more than to put my mouth around your balls."

Aidan complied at once. He hadn't done it before, as he hadn't known Dean would be into it, but the idea... God, and here Dean was saying he wouldn't last long. "I can't hold it up much longer," he hated to say. "It's a heart thing. Need to lie down soon. Fuck, Dean, I really want you in me in other ways."

Dean grew still beneath him. "Y-you should lay down then, Aidan," he patted Aidan's hip. His voice was tight. "Please, don't do anything that'll cause you pain."

"No, no," Aidan kissed him on his thigh, "no pain. Stamina. I've been prone for nearly half a year, so..." It wasn't something he was proud of. He licked one long stripe up Dean's member from base to tip, and sucked on the end as a parting gift.

Dean was kissed as soon as Aidan was back next to him. His hand lingered between his boyfriend's legs. "You said something about your mouth around my balls?"

Dean closed his eyes against the rising desire. "I was so sure I'd go off like a rocket when you touched me," he confessed. "That's how it felt. I felt wound like a spring, just waiting for your hand."

He ran his finger carefully over Aidan's scar and followed it with his mouth, kissing softly around the scar's puffy edges. His kisses continued down the trail of dark hair that led to Aidan's crotch until his nose was buried in a thick thatch of dark curls. "You're so warm—all over," Dean observed, the sound muffled by flesh and hair as he explored Aidan's testicles with his nose, and finally his mouth.

A breathy laugh was followed by Aidan arching his back with a sigh. When that put a strain on the scar, he tilted his head back. Already his skin was slick with a light sheen of perspiration. It craved Dean's touch. A simple brush of a hand against his side or hip already had him on edge, which made Aidan really shudder under Dean's mouth. He bit the inside of his hand. "Will you last on top?"

"Riding you?" Dean smiled up at him. "I would love nothing more than that. Then I can look at your beautiful, brown eyes. But... tonight? Do you really want to do that right away?"

Aidan wanted to kiss him. "Just on top. Give me something to look forward to. I can handle you on top if we're careful."

"I get you," Dean's eyes were nearly enveloped by his pupils. "How about, just partially on top of you?" he got to his knees and stretched for the lube, squirting a bit into his hand. Straddling one of Aidan's thighs, he leaned over him so that their cocks were dangerously close together. He could just close his slick hand around both erections. "If I do this," he rocked against the right side of Aidan's body experimentally, both cocks sliding through his steady grip, "does it bother your injury?"

Distracted by the delicious friction, Aidan only mutely shook his head. His eyes wanted to digress down and watch the hand that brought him pleasure, but they stayed on Dean's eyes and lips, quite liking what he saw there. "I can handle it." He didn't think he had ever wanted someone more than he did Dean at that moment. A blaze started in his chest and traveled south to where Dean was touching him, where it pooled. The desire to have him inside turned into something physically palpable.

Dean pushed off with his toes and knees over and over, eyes locked on Aidan's dark ones until he felt he might fall into their depths and drown. As their mutual passion rose, he welcomed that little death. Finally, Dean could contain himself no longer. He came with a strangled cry, breaking eye contact and laying his head against Aidan's shoulder. He continued to rut, willing Aidan to climax as well.

Aidan's eyes flew open at the outcry. Oh god, no, no, not just yet. He wanted—needed—

But as he was met with the sight of Dean breaking down, Aidan didn't care about all the things he needed. He guided his lover's mouth against his own with shaking hands, kissing him for dear life while his hips thrust up on their own accord. The slight nag at his wound wouldn't stop him. It took him but a minute to come. His system shuddered with pleasure, while he broke the kiss and tossed his head back. Whereas their lovemaking had been a mess of heavy breathing, Aidan became completely silent during the moment he burst.

Once Aidan's tense form relaxed, Dean fell down next to him, wiping his cum-slicked hand on his own hip to clean it off. "Oh," the blond whispered, nuzzling Aidan's cheek with his nose. "That was—"

"...so worth doing again," laughed Aidan breathlessly. When he looked at Dean, he saw someone who glowed—someone who made him warm inside. Someone he didn't want to lose. How did this man become so precious to him? "Thank you. So, next time..."

Dean chuckled softly, wrapping his arm around Aidan's waist. "Yeah?"

"Next time you get _in_ me," smiled Aidan. He touched Dean's cheek. His hand slid further until tangling into Dean's messed up hair. "That was such a fucking tease."

Dean stilled in Aidan's arms. "Aidan... I..." he appeared noticeably paler.

Upon seeing it, Aidan pressed their lips together. He couldn't have Dean starting to doubt the nature of what they had done, which started with Aidan not giving off the wrong signals. "All in good time. Like I said, we've got time. I love you."

Dean pulled the covers up over them and Aidan fell asleep quickly surrounded by the warmth. But Dean could not sleep. He pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, along with his socks and sneakers, and retreated to the balcony. The night had grown chilly, but the view was clear and spectacular, a full moon bright over the dark water. 

He sat down at the balcony table and set Richard's urn down next to him on the Plexiglas surface. "Well, I've done it now, haven't I?" he spoke to the inanimate thing that held his husband's remains, caressing its surface as if it were truly Richard's face. "It couldn't have been your dreams he was enjoying all those months," Dean eyed the waves, shivering, "not with what he's asking me to do." 

He got no answer. He had not expected one, after all.

"Is this a mistake?" he asked into the breeze. "Richard, I'm scared."

\- - - - - 

The morning sun that woke Aidan from his slumber was pleasant. He stretched languidly in the bed, the sheets wrapping around him. When Aidan remembered where he was, he rolled onto his side, facing Dean’s side of the bed. The spot was empty.

Aidan frowned. He was quickly relieved of his troubles when Dean walked in, smelling of egg and bacon and fresh air. "Hmm, morning, gorgeous" he croaked. "What time is it?"

"Around eight," Dean told him, setting a bag that obviously contained breakfast on the table. "Did you know that the little B&B down on the corner by the wharf is for sale?"

"Ah." Aidan rolled onto his back. He closed his eyes a minute longer. A smile that could only come from a sunny morning and a happy buzz in his chest spread across his face. "Wasn't paying attention to the B&B. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, no reason," Dean got two round foil containers from the bags, along with cartons of juice and milk. "It's just such a quaint building. The weathered wood, the netting. Very nautical. It's near where I got our breakfast. They're only open May through mid-September. What life that would be, huh?"

Eyes opened and found him. "Are you thinking about buying it?"

Dean paused his breakfast preparation and looked up at him. "Do you know how much _Osiris_ sold for, Aidan?" he wondered.

His boyfriend sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes until they felt like staying open. "A lot, isn't it?" Dean wouldn't be answering that question with this specific question. Aidan knew where this was going. The happy feeling was getting shaky.

Dean smiled softly and went to the side of the bed, sitting down next to Aidan. "Yeah, it was a lot. A lot more than I ever dreamed. And that was just for the original. It doesn't include royalties from the sale of prints and postcards. I could stop painting altogether and live very comfortably—if I wanted to," he gently pushed a stray curl from Aidan's face. "Don't worry. I won't want to stop painting." He sat down by Aidan's side so that their hips touched. "But I have these times when I feel like I should be doing _more._ Do you know what I mean?"

"...Like cooking." Like many other things, Aidan assumed. He leaned his head on Dean's shoulder, needing the proximity. "Do you want to buy it as a summer house?" he asked. "So you can come here in summer to live? You'll still paint Ra, won't you? I was looking forward to that."

He had also been looking forward to returning to London and picking up their lives together.

"It's crazy, right?" Dean leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. "Tell me I'm crazy," he chuckled. "At any rate, I'm going to take a tour of the place after eleven, when some of the guests have checked out. It's got only four rooms for tourists to stay in. First floor is the dining room and kitchen and a decent sized living room. The third floor, the owner said, is a big, open-air loft—for the caretaker to stay in. It's got a balcony overlooking the sea." He squeezed Aidan's shoulder. "I've been thinking all night about the direction I want my life to go now. Do you ever do that? Think? Plan?"

"I planned on writing a book and starring in a TV show," Aidan replied without much enthusiasm. He couldn't help but worry where the sudden interest in running a bed and breakfast came from—and whether Aidan still had a place in the new life Dean was imagining around himself. They had slept together, and in the night that followed, Dean had thought about his life and all the things he wanted to change. 

Aidan shouldn't let those thoughts sink them before they had a chance to sail, though. He pulled himself together. "Do you want me to come?"

"Of course I do," Dean assured him immediately. "And if you have to shoot over the summer, then I want you here on weekends, at the very least. I was hoping," his eyes searched Aidan's face, "well, I was hoping to keep living with you—in the townhouse. Is that all right?"

And all worries slid off Aidan's back at once. "Absolutely. So if you buy the place, it'll be like a long distance thing until October? But you'd come back in the winter, and I'd come over in the weekend in summer?" He could do that. It wasn't ideal, but then again, they'd have more space. "Okay, so," he sat back on the bed and tucked the sheets snugly about him, "breakfast in bed for your boyfriend, and then tell me all about it."

Dean's face lit up and it was as if the clouds had parted and the sun broke through. He hopped out of bed and handed Aidan a container holding a cheese omelet, sausage and red potatoes browned with rosemary, along with a fork and napkin. "First of all," Dean told him, "I'm just going to check the place out, okay? But even if I did buy it, I wouldn't be starting the actual work until _next_ spring. The owners want to stay through the summer. You'd like them, Aid. They're an older couple, Welsh." Dean took a bite of sausage and lay down next to him. "Your hair in the morning—it's quite comical."

Quick hands tried to minimize the damage by tidying it, but as soon as Aidan let go of his hair, it sprung up again. He decided breakfast was more important. "Imagine what people will think when they hear it. 'Renowned painter starts up seaside business'. Isn't there a rule artists should be poor?" Aidan enjoyed his continental breakfast with a smile. "Fucking Cornwall. Can you imagine it? I like it."

"It's a modest little place," Dean poked him playfully in the side. "I'm hardly going high-end or corporate. We could advertise in the London Times to draw people out for the summer, so that we always have a full house. We could even exclusively cater to gay couples, if we wanted to. And when we're under-booked, we invite friends down to spend the time with us." Dean got up and went to the sliding glass patio door. The breeze coming through the screen toyed with his hair. "Can you imagine waking up to this view one hundred days a year? Who wouldn't be inspired by that?"

"Until I base my first murder mystery novel here," Aidan pointed out. "Which is bound to happen if I'm here every weekend. Maybe one village over, or it'll be bad for business." He stole a small kiss. "What if it's booked every weekend though? Will you be working all day?"  
"No," Dean smiled, plopping back down next to him. "That's the plus-side of a B&B. You do have to keep the place clean and provide breakfast, yes. But someone else could work the front desk. Even take the reservations from a remote location year round. Oh gosh," his eyes lit up, "could you imagine—hosting a themed murder mystery weekend?'

"For an artist, you're awfully business savvy." Aidan chewed on a potato piece. "And handsome. All right, show me what's captured your fancy."

He indulged himself during breakfast, and finished off with a shower. When Aidan returned to the bedroom, his hair was back under control and his smile infectious.

"Mmm," Dean remarked when Aidan leaned over to kiss him. "You smell amazing. We still have an hour to kill. Want to take a walk down to the beach?"

Aidan glowed with a stupid amount of happiness. "It's a beautiful day." He already knew that if the place was remotely decent, Dean was going to buy it. He had that look, the same one he had when he talked about cooking. Aidan looked over at the ashes. "Have you figured out what to do with them yet?" he asked.

A sad look passed over Dean's eyes, turning them a slightly darker blue—but only for a brief moment. "Not yet," he told Aidan, in a tone that indicated he didn't want to talk about that right now. He put his room key into the pocket of his tan cargo pants. "Not just yet, all right?" he reached for Aidan's hand.

"Okay." Aidan had expected the ashes to be scattered in the days he had been absent from the world. He still wanted to be there, but it was not worth the risk of alienating Dean. He squeezed Dean's hand and walked him outside. "Cup of coffee on the way there?"

Dean, who had only managed to get about ninety minutes of fitful sleep, agreed readily. "How about that place on the wharf with the Mocha Valencias? I love chocolate and orange in my coffee." He squeezed Aidan's hand and took a deep breath of the briny air. "I really do like it here," he told the other man. "For such an old, established village, it's much more tolerant than I expected." He ended his declaration with an eye on a gay pride flag, hanging from the eaves of Raven Fodder, the local stained glass and bead shop where Dean had already spent far too much money.

"Which means I get to kiss you in the middle of the road if I feel like it?" Aidan liked being outdoors. He hadn't been on much else than short walks for too long, and supervised when going into town. He wanted to spend all day in the sun, the risk of sunburn be damned. "Just a cappuccino for me. So, if you buy it, what will you name it? Will it stay the same?"

"Oh gosh. It’s far too soon to be thinking about all that," Dean leaned up and pressed a kiss to Aidan's cheek. "It's got a cute nautical theme. I like it. Let's get come caffeine," he chuckled, pulling Aidan towards the café in question. 

They sat down at an outdoor table near a family with three children intent on feeding the local seagulls. The dark-headed birds kept venturing closer and closer. Some of them would catch hunks of bagel and toast in the air. The proprietor and his lone server watched the display with practiced patience. The littlest child couldn't have been older than four. He had dark curls and bright blue eyes.

"What a beautiful kid," Dean squeezed Aidan's hand across the table. "He's going to break hearts someday. Mark my word."

Aidan saw the resemblance, though the kid was still pudgy-faced and shy of the world. He seemed to like the birds more than he did other people though. "Let his parents enjoy a few years of peace before it begins," he smiled. "I think when we get back—Christ, I really don't like thinking about going back—but just saying, when we do, I'm going to pay Mum and Dad a visit. Just for a few days. I haven't been there for so long. Thanks, for taking me here. It's good to be away from home some time."

Dean, who had been watching the antics of the family and the birds with amused interest, shot his attention to Aidan. "Could I—maybe—go with you? I mean, if it's not something you want to do alone? We could go directly there from here, you know."

"To my parents?" That surprised Aidan. "Er, sure, but you are aware they're going to pretend you're their son-in-law, right? Are you ready for that?"

Dean nodded. "You think?" he brightened. "You think they could see me like that?"

Dean was already planning the drive: up the coast to Wales. Then they could take the auto ferry across to Ireland.

"You want that? It doesn't scare you, or something?" Dean had no clue he was just about declaring the highlight of their holiday—other than what had happened the night before. "Sure. _Sure_. I'll take you to see them. Mum's going to be terrible about that," Aidan laughed. He squinted at the sun, his hair again windswept. "She loves you."

" _Scare_ me?" Dean threw back his head and laughed at the absurdity of that notion, then grew somber. " Your parents don’t scare me at all. I want them to know that I love you, Aidan."

"You really continue to make this day better and better, don't you?" They were heartfelt words that underlay a strong affection. "I thought, maybe it would be too soon. But I want to. I want to introduce them to you, formally, and tell them I'm with you. You make me happy. Sorry if it isn't always easy with me, but I like making you happy too. Come on, let's check out your B&B, see what the future has in store for us."


	25. Something Crazy People Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Aidan tour the B & B, and Dean falls deeper in love.

Peter and Camilla Lloyd, owners of The Lighthouse Bed & Breakfast, were a delightful, energetic couple in their 50s. 

"Our son, Jack — he and his wife just had their first child," Camilla explained, patting Aidan's arm. "Our first grandchild. So you can imagine our desire to live closer to them. This place," she looked around at the dining room, which held an antique wooden captain's table for ten, "well, we've had it most of our adult lives. But we're ready to retire."

Dean wandered off towards the fireplace, which was fashioned of sandstone and concrete, with a thick sea-worn split log for a mantel. The entire fireplace was impressed with seashells, starfish and sea glass. "I love this," Dean couldn't hold back his childish fascination, running a finger along a bright green piece of smooth sea glass. "I've never seen anything like it."

"Peter made it," Camilla said proudly. 

"Oh, now," her husband blustered. "It was my one contribution. Cammie does all the cooking and decorating."

Aidan lingered behind as Dean let his eyes take in the rooms that were part of the tour. Most of the house was in good condition, though it would need a lick of paint in future years, and some of the wood was wearing down. Probably that was a side effect of having a seaside house exposed to the elements. He decided to take in everything that Dean's dreamy gaze would not.

There wasn't much he could find wrong, and it was hard to keep looking at the things lacking when Aidan could also see the promise that the place held. The windows were double-paned, and there were no drafts. He asked Camilla about her grandchild, and how she and Peter had met, while Dean was checking out one of the bathrooms.

By the time they returned, Aidan had been talked into tea. "Sorry," said he apologetically. "She asked nicely."

"It's leftover zucchini bread from breakfast," Camilla pushed the plate in Dean's direction. "Our garden just keeps spitting out zucchini and summer squash. I have to figure out a way to prepare them for every meal."

Dean picked up a piece and took a bite. "Delicious!" he proclaimed. "So, there's a garden too?" His eyes found Aidan's, trying to read what he saw there.

And Aidan knew at that moment that Dean was sold. A vegetable garden for someone who loved to cook, with a view that would bring out the artist in him—the house was all of Dean's interests made material. He loved it, and more because it made his boyfriend look at him like that. "Well, go check it out!" Aidan urged with a laugh. "I'll be with you in a bit."

Dean gave a gleeful laugh, "That way?" he pointed at the door that led from the kitchen to the backyard. Camilla nodded, returning the smile.

"What's it like, then?" she asked, Aidan, refilling his tea, "being involved with an artist?"

Aidan and Dean had not mentioned them being a couple. Aidan supposed it still showed. "He hasn't worked on any paintings lately," he said. "He will, of course, and I'll start working again. Until then, we've just got loads of time. It's great. We've only just become involved, as a matter of fact." He nudged his head to the door outside. "How long have you and Mr. Lloyd been together?"

"Peter and I met when we were both seventeen," Camilla smiled, and her eyes moved upward and to the left, as if drifting off into a memory. "Thirty-five years ago. We were married in 1980. It seems like another time. It _was,_ " she chuckled. "You two seem very happy, and comfortable around one another. I hope you hang onto that."

"I hope we will. Thirty-five years... I'm turning thirty-one in a week. Imagine that." Dean and he, they had only accumulated a few months so far. Not much longer and Aidan would be breaking his own record—and he would have found someone who proved to want to stick around. "I'm going to be honest here. If you've got a wine cellar or a pantry in here, you should really show him that."

"Wine cellar, no," she smiled. "Not to say we don't keep a few bottles on hand, of course. Our patrons only eat breakfast here, after all, so the most potent cocktails I make up are mimosas and Bloody Marys. Dean, aside from the fireplace, seemed very taken with the living quarters, on the third floor. He's got a thing for high ceilings and fireplaces, that one. I'll show him the pantry when he comes back inside."

Dean returned shortly, with Peter in tow. Each was carrying an armful of zucchini. 

"Looks like I'll be baking more bread," Camilla raised her eyebrows. "Thankfully it freezes well."

Ten minutes later, Aidan and Dean were alone on the intimate third floor balcony overlooking the water. "Can you imagine," Dean slid up behind Aidan, hugging him, "having this for a view when you step outside?"

"Would this be our floor?" Aidan asked. His hands wrapped around Dean's arms in reply, as the bright noon sun shone down on them. "Because I'd put a chair here and make sure there was a power source. I could write here. I could wake up to this. There are some maintenance things you have to think about if you want it—but I'll talk to you about it when we get back. You want it, don't you?"

Dean lay his head against Aidan's shoulder. "Buying B&B in a town hundreds of miles from home. That's something crazy people do, right?" He scoffed. "It feels crazy. But it also feels like exactly what I want to do." He released Aidan, then came 'round in front of him. "It's not something I want to do in order to be away from you. You get that, right?"

"...I wasn't sure at first." Aidan cast his eyes down, self-aware. "We just took a big step, and then you tell me you want to move out of London. But then you said you wanted me over in the weekends, and that you wanted to stay in London off-season. I don't want you to stop doing things because we're together. A relationship means sharing each other's lives, not dictating one another's." He looked up tentatively. "That you want me to show you to my parents plays a big part, too."

"But... the thing with your parents..." Dean looked away sadly, "do you see that as me dictating as well?"

"That's me wanting nothing more," smiled Aidan. "If I didn't want it, I'd tell you. If you don't want something, I expect you to tell me as well."

"I want you to be happy, Aidan," Dean told him, cupping Aidan's face and running his thumb over Aidan's cheekbone. "You've been through hell. We both have. We deserve to be happy. If you think this is a bad idea, I want your input. I told Peter and Camilla we'd let them know before we head back to London. Let's take four days to weigh the pros and cons, all right?"

They spent only twenty minutes on the balcony in that strangers' house, but Aidan took what he could get. He whispered, "We wait at least three before we give them our answer. It's good for the price. Do you see any cons, Dean? I don't think it's a bad idea. Unexpected, sure, but then you've always been full of surprises, and I've never seen you do something only halfway through. I'm more concerned about the fare every weekend than I am to be here."

"Well, upkeep is always a hassle," Dean told him, "as with any home. The sea air isn't kind to wood. But Camilla said she and Peter are planning to make some improvements before handing the building over. It comes with all the furnishings, except for those in their living quarters. And Aidan, please don't worry about paying for the fuel. You have a great job now. And you'll have me helping you out."

"Trains," Aidan corrected. "I don't have a car—or a driver's license, for that matter. Sorry. So, I was thinking," he started, "maybe in the beginning I can stay longer than the weekend, if I haven't got any obligations back in London?"

"Oh... wow," Dean grinned. "You don't drive? I had no idea. We have to rectify that, Aidan. And get you a car, too."

"I live in London. I work in London—mostly, anyway. I've never needed a car." Aidan had told his mother as such, every time she had insisted. There had not been a necessity for a car before. "Until you caught sight of a house in Cornwall," he added. "Which is lovely, and all, but can I at least have my driving lessons here, and not in London?"

Dean drew him close and hugged him tightly. "Yeah," he breathed in his ear. "Whatever you want. I think it might be fun zipping around here on a scooter anyway. I might just have to pick one up and leave my car with you."

"You trust me way too much," chuckled Aidan. "All right, let's head down. Staying here with this view will only make you want the house more. Besides, I've been hoping you wanted to go somewhere where it's just the two of us."

"Hot tub?" Dean suggested, eyebrows raised.

"I was thinking a walk, but that sounds so much better."

"You said you wanted to be alone with me." Dean took Aidan by the hand and started back inside the inn. "And I have yet to get you into that hot tub with me. God knows I've tried."

Behind them, Peter cleared his throat and they turned to find him grinning at them. "You two really seem at home here."

"I love this place," Dean said agreeably, even though it was probably a bit more prudent not to show so much enthusiasm. "The two of you must have had a wonderful life here."

"Beautiful," said Peter, "and I'm not saying that because I think this place is perfect for you. You don't get to wake up to this view just anywhere."

"You don't," Aidan acquiesced. "We'll let you know before we leave. Should we want a second tour...?"

"Call us," Camilla replied at once. "You're nice people. All we want is for someone to love the place as much as we have."

Dean didn't speak again until he and Aidan were out in front of the inn, standing, facing the sea. The front of the B&B had a small patio enclosed by a wooden fence. It held two picnic tables and a fire pit. 

"I like the pit," Dean comments. "The tables are pretty dreadful though."

"Then the tables will be replaced. What about the fence?" Aidan leaned in and murmured, "The azure blue wouldn't be my first choice."

With the hot tub in mind, he encouraged Dean to leave the house and think it over. Aidan knew he was very transparent about it. He liked the house though. With some adjustments, he could live there. "It'll be strange, not living in a city in the summer."

"I grew up by the sea," Dean told him as they walked. "Did I ever tell you that?"

Aidan casually draped an arm around Dean's waist, just to see how that felt. He had never gotten the chance. It was nice, he decided, even if he had to walk in line for it to work. "You lived by the sea. That explains why you want the house" he smiled. "I didn't know. I thought you came from a city in New Zealand. I didn't grow up in Dublin itself, but it was so easy to go there. I was in the city all the time. I like London. The silence here at night, it's a little scary."

"We could get you a white noise machine, I suppose," Dean mused, leaning into Aidan's touch. "And I did grow up in a city. Auckland was a coastal city. My family had a beach house." Dean didn't offer any other details. "I like the people here in Cornwall a lot."

"I'm glad you got into that plane that brought you to university," said Aidan honestly. They would not have met if he hadn't. "I'll get used to it. Before long, I plan on getting used to falling asleep on the beach or in a comfortable chair with the sea in the background. Or just wherever you are."

Hope unfurled in Dean's chest, and he stole a glance at Aidan, walking along beside him with his head high. He didn't care who saw them walking so closely, or what the spectators thought. It felt good. No, _good_ wasn't a strong enough word to describe it. It felt natural, and made Dean's heart soar.

Could things really be this easy between him and Aidan, or was it just the blush of new love, clouding his thinking?

Before he could think further, Aidan kissed him on the cheek. "Hot tub," the brunet smiled. "Quality time with my boyfriend. I like saying that. Tell me if I push it, but I do."

"I love hearing it," Dean assured him. And he did. What he was feeling for Aidan—and _about_ Aidan—terrified him as much as it thrilled him. "I want you to know," Dean spoke quietly so that others walking along the wharf couldn't hear him, "that you've mentioned wanting some things, sexually, that I haven't done before. That I haven't wanted to do. I'm just telling you this in case I act weird later on. I'm nervous about it."

Aidan stopped walking. His hand kept hold of Dean, which was how Dean, too, stopped. "I said things you didn't want?" Dean could see how Aidan thought that was a grave matter. "What was it? I'll stop saying it. You have to tell me these things, Dean, please. I—" He felt terrible about it, and he had no clue what he might have said wrong. "I'm sorry."

"It's just," and now Dean was utterly embarrassed under the scrutiny of Aidan's intense dark eyes, "do you remember when I told you about why Adam and me didn't work out? 

Quiet as a bird, Aidan nodded in the affirmative.

"You see... in case you hadn't figured it out..." he took Aidan's hand and pulled him to a stone bench that overlooked the ocean. "Adam and I were both interested in being on the _receiving_ end, when it came to sex. And we were young and stubborn and neither of us was willing to compromise on the issue. I'm not the same man I was then, Aidan, but I still do prefer to bottom. But," he added quickly, "I would try it for you—if you wanted me to. But I can't guarantee you I'd be very good at it."

"...And I said—" Aidan was catching on. "—shit." He had called Dean a tease for not having taken him. They had slept together for the first time, and Aidan had unwittingly pressured Dean. "Don't do that," he said at once. "Don't try. I'm sorry, I didn't know. I just—it's not going to be easy for me to top for a while, Dean, and I just assumed you'd be okay with that. But you're not doing something you're not comfortable with. There are so many other things we can do." He cupped Dean's face. "Thanks for telling me. Sorry again. Hey," he smiled softly, "we're in this together, remember?"

"This is all new ground, Aidan," Dean leaned into the touch, "new for both of us. I don't expect everything to be perfect. I just want a partner who loves me and is willing to put up with my temperamental, artistic whims."

"I promise you, I am," smiled Aidan. He knew his eyes were growing wet, and he didn't care. Their road had been rocky so far. It would probably continue to be so for a while, but as long as they did this—as long as they _talked_ —they could make it work. "That's what being in love is about, isn't it? You're thinking of buying a house on the seaside on a whim, you temperamental artist of mine. And you know what? I love you for it."

Dean, trembling from happiness, snuggled into the warmth surrounding Aidan. "Does it scare you, how much I need you? Because, it scares me."

"Are you kidding me?" Aidan kissed atop his hair, holding him close. He closed his eyes. "To hear that makes me so happy. I'm afraid I'll do something stupid some day and scare you off. If you need me as much as I need you, we're both exactly where we're supposed to be. We just need a little confidence, I suppose, but we can work on that."

A breeze ruffled the umbrellas on the beach in front of them, and all at once the air smelled like brine, sizzling onions from nearby food vendors, popcorn and tropical suntan oil. Dean breathed in deeply, memorizing everything about the moment.

"We're going to be okay, Aidan," he assured the other man. "I know it."

"Yeah, we are." Kissing him once again, because he couldn't get enough of it, Aidan leaned his weight against Dean's. "This place is making me hungry again. Let's go."

He continued to sneak proud glances at Dean while they returned to the hotel. Aidan again disappeared in his own hotel room shortly to fetch some clothing, and knocked on the door again some ten minutes later.

The day had turned out to be quite warm. The idea of getting in the hot tub now seemed silly.

Dean had changed into a form hugging pair of electric blue boxer brief. "Hey," he smiled, letting Aidan into the room and locking the door behind him. "Getting separate rooms seems so weird now, doesn't it?"

"It made sense when we got here." Aidan removed the hotel's bathrobe he was wearing as soon as the door closed. He walked out onto the balcony in deep gray boxers, and smiled at the pleasant warmth. "Do you think people will care that I'm here in my underwear?" he asked. "I could pretend it's swimming trunks, but I don't see the point." He found himself a seat and got comfortable, before he sat up abruptly.

"Are you asking to share rooms?"

"Well, both rooms are paid for," Dean reminded him. "I suppose we could take turns," he smiled and pulled Aidan towards the king-sized bed. "Kiss me."

Stumbling over the doorstep, Aidan didn't need to be told twice. Basking in the warmth of the sun was forgotten as soon as he moved in and kissed the other. Their nearly naked bodies pressed against each other. "This room tonight?" he asked.

"This room... _right now,_ " Dean growled, burying his hands in Aidan's hair and kissing him hungrily, rolling on top of the other man. When he pulled away from him, he asked, "Is this comfortable?"

Aidan nodded quickly. "I'm fine. Don't lean on it too much, and I can take it." He was surprised at the sudden change. After Dean's confession, he had planned on taking it slower. Dean's current enthusiasm however was something he didn't want to ignore. Aidan kissed back with equal ardor. They could feel nearly everything of each other, and without his conscious intent, he rolled his hips up. Dean's actions were turning him on incredibly. "Right now. All right."

"I could kiss you for hours," Dean confessed, twirling a bit of Aidan's hair around a finger, "or more, if you'd like. I'm not going to be naive and say that we have forever together. I know that's not true anymore. But we don't need to rush either."

"We've got plenty of time." Aidan rolled them onto their side. He loved the way Dean responded to his kisses. His stubble was going to get him a beard burn, and he would wear it proudly. Aidan moved slowly. He had no intention of either of them coming on top and having the situation progress into something less innocent, despite what his body was telling him. Here, in this bed, he was taking as long as he wanted to explore how Dean responded to different ways of kissing him. "This is nice," he whispered. It was perhaps more intimate than the night before had been. "You're amazing."

Dean lay his forehead against Aidan's, reveling in the closeness and warmth. "We have four more days here in St. Ives, and I can't wait to see your parents again. And then, you start filming," he ran his hand down Aidan's flank, stopping at his hip. "The whole world is going to fall in love with you, Aidan Turner."

Aidan shivered at the lightness of the touch. He let his lips travel to Dean's neck, planting kisses wherever he went, until stopping at the clavicle. "Dean O'Gorman, it seems the world already has." His fingertips brushed through Dean's hair, twirling small circles, while he brought his mouth back against Dean's neck and suckled on that spot. "I love you. I'm not interested in anything that isn't you right now."

Dean literally felt himself falling deeper in love. He had only fallen in love once before, and it certainly hadn't happened like this. His mind traveled back in time to when Richard was still alive—to the terrible thoughts he'd entertained about Aidan—and he loathed himself for not being a better person then.

He needed to spend the rest of his life making it up to Aidan, beginning immediately.


	26. Don't Let Me Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time finally comes to put Richard's ashes in the sea.

Dean gently eased Aidan onto his back, then he lay his head over Aidan's chest. His breath evened out as, over the distant sound of the waves and seagulls, he focused on the steady beat of Richard's heart— _Aidan's_ heart—under his ear.

Aidan rested the back of his head on the pillow. His hand continued to twirl into Dean's curls. "It's strong," whispered he. "Listen to it. It beats so steady. I've never had it beat so steady."

Dean hummed in agreement. "It's talking to me." He wrapped his arm around Aidan's waist. "It's saying that I'm supposed to take care of you. That we're supposed to take care of each other." After a moment's pause, Dean concluded, "I think tonight we should put Richard's ashes in the sea, like he asked."

Aidan closed his eyes. His hands continued their task, at peace with that. "All right. Do you want me to be here when you come back? I can give you some time if you need it. I'd really like some time with the ashes before you go, if that's all right."

"I thought you wanted to go with me?" Dean queried. "You know, to say goodbye."

"It makes you uncomfortable," said Aidan. "It's okay. He was your husband, after all. Husbands have that right. I've thought about it, and it's—" He took a deep breath. "I have said my goodbyes already."

Dean didn't argue with him, because he didn't want to. "Thank you, Aidan," he said instead, throwing a leg up over Aidan's thigh and squeezing him tighter. He was quiet for nearly a minute, then said, "I'm not a religious person. I never was. I was always of the mind that in order to go on living after we die, we need to do something in this life that will cause people to remember us. Maybe it's another reason why I became an artist." His breath was warm across Aidan's chest. "But now that Richard's gone, I like to think he's up there— _out there_ —watching me. Not all the time, of course. But, maybe I'm like a TV channel he can flip to when he misses me." Dean chuckled. "Wow, that sounds really stupid said out loud."

Aidan laughed, the sound of it rumbling in his chest. "I believe I once thought of my dreams having been uploaded by his ghost. It's—don't hit me for saying it—it doesn't feel like him. When I think of him, I think of a man who had a smile for everyone; who always saw the best in people. But when I look at that urn, I only think about the way his life ended. He meant the world to me, and I felt like I was supposed to be there when he was last around us. That is why I insisted. But all I think it'll do for me is make his farewell more important than the memory of his life. Does that make sense?"

"Why would I hit you for that?" Dean sat up and looked at him. "To me, that urn holds the last earthly physical piece of my husband. I have this ring, of course," Dean held up his hand, "but most of Richard is in that urn. I know those ashes can't hold me, or speak to me, but I have been speaking to them. Especially when things got bad. And I know they couldn't hear me, but I suppose those one-sided conversations were a form of therapy. Having his urn nearby made me feel better than I would have felt if Richard were buried far away in the ground. And it will be hard for me to just dump him out, like trash, into the ocean." Dean's eyes rested on the sliding glass patio door. "But I'm going to. It's what he wanted... and it's the next step to me moving on with my life."

"You're a strong man," Aidan spoke softly. "If you don't want me around when you get back, I'd understand. I'll be in my own room, and you can let me know when you want my company. I can work on my book. It'll be my way of honoring his memory. I'll take care of his heart, and I'll continue his heritage. Nobody will forget him."

A tear rolled down Dean's face and he lay back down, hugging Aidan again. "I love you," he said simply. The declaration was punctuated by the beat of Aidan's heart.

Aidan's eyes locked with his. He didn't kiss or touch Dean, not willing to distract him. He had not had a moment like this before. If he thought he had been in love prior to Dean, he had fooled himself. After several beats, he whispered back, "I love you too. Don't let me go."

"I won't," Dean promised. "I won't." His breathing evened out and his lack of sleep the night before began to catch up with him. Aidan was so warm, and his heartbeat so hypnotic, that Dean drifted off.

He opened his eyes some time later to find himself alone in bed, covered with a light blanket. Aidan was sitting at the small table by the window, typing on his laptop. The digital clock on the bedside table read 4:25 p.m.

"Oh god," Dean groaned. "We were going to— Why did you let me fall asleep?"

Aidan turned in his seat. He leaned his chin on his palm, which was balancing on the edge of the chair. "Oh, hi." His smile was full of adoration. "I fell asleep too. Sorry. You looked so peaceful when I woke up." If Dean was going to fall asleep before him tonight, Aidan doubted he was going to get much sleep in. He was only working on his story so as not to appear too hopeless a case, but he had had a hard time keeping his eyes off his boyfriend. "Feeling awake enough?"

"That was a fantastic nap," Dean decided. "I liked falling asleep on you. I guess random napping's allowed on holiday, isn't it? How's the writing going?"

"Slow." Getting up, Aidan nudged off his slippers and bathrobe, and sat on the edge of the bed. "Are you still warm? Room to spare?"

"Yeah," Dean smiled, sleepily, rubbing one eye. "Gotta love king size beds." He patted the space next to him. "What are you writing about?" He asked, after Aidan lay next to him.

With his curls loose and his smile sloppy, Aidan looked like he had not left the bed. "New story," he said. "I deleted the other outline. I could either try to recall all the details or just start anew. This one is going to have more symbolism. I'm still working out the idea though, so I haven't got much. But it'll be something to be proud of. I've just got a hunch." He rolled onto his side, so he could watch the other man. "You've slept all afternoon, and you still look sleepy."

"It's being at the seaside," Dean slid closer to Aidan, ruffling his curls further. "Makes me lazy and complacent. Y'know, Language Arts was never my strong suit in school, but if you ever want me to read anything you've written, I'd like to," he told Aidan. He nudged him with his shoulder. "I'm so proud of you."

Aidan found himself amused but flattered by his boyfriend's words on his roughly outlined drabble. "When my first draft is done. It's still scary to let someone else read what I've written. Besides," he winked mysteriously, "I wouldn't want you to cancel your plans to live here."

Dean threw his arm up over his eyes. "God, what a crazy idea!" he groaned. "Why on earth would I want to be separated from you for months on end? I'll tell Peter and Camilla no. I'll tell them first thing tomorrow."

"What? No!" Aidan was confused. "I meant I was going to write a murder mystery set in that house!"

It was clear that Dean was having an off day, mostly due to the prospect of getting rid of Richard's ashes that night. "I just don't want you thinking I'm trying to get away from you. That's not it at all. I'm just trying to... well, to find myself, I suppose."

Aidan burrowed himself into the warmth that was the other man. "Find yourself. But I didn't mind the idea of spending my weekends here. Quite the contrary. Don't cancel your plans because of that."

"Well, at any rate," Dean relaxed into the position, "I need to continue to think about it. It's a big decision to make capriciously. Although," he smiled up at Aidan, "I did just have a dream about it."

"You dreamed about living here? What did you dream about?"

"Well," Dean took Aidan's hand in his own, and kissed the inside of his wrist, "I dreamed I was in the kitchen, cooking omelets with feta cheese and spinach. I was putting them on plates and you were carrying them out to the dining room for the guests to eat. One of Richard's 40s CDs was playing. But then," he paused, "the dream got a little trippy, because more omelets kept appearing in the pan, and I had to keep handing them to you on plates—which also seemed to be in endless supply. We were laughing and making omelets for an army of people, who couldn’t have possibly have fit around the table," he chuckled, eyes meeting Aidan's. "It was pretty awesome."

"You had a Disney dream," Aidan smiled. "That's adorable. Were we singing?" He quickly kissed Dean on the corner of his mouth. "Don't stop dreaming about that house. It's a bit sudden, I admit, but you didn't see yourself during the tour. You were spellbound. You looked like you were imagining how it could be, and if I'm not mistaken, you loved that idea. Speaking of which, I'm not much of a cook, but I do make a mean omelet, in case you're interested."

"How about you make me an omelet at Danny and Angela's house?" Dean caressed Aidan's face. "And maybe I can talk your mum into making her popovers. Now _those_ are the stuff of dreams!"

"You won't let me treat you here?" Aidan raised his brow. "I could always make you dinner here as well as when we're over there. I don't mind. Or, if you want to, I can take you to dinner somewhere."

"Here's fine," Dean nuzzled Aidan's cheek with his nose. "Sure, you can do it here. I just thought—you know, vacation and all—that you might want to take it easy. I don't doubt your omelet-making abilities. After all, your pasta was out of this world." He ran a finger slowly and carefully along Aidan's scar, watching the skin around it pucker up with goose flesh. Then he leaned over and kissed the spot, lips slowly making their way to the elastic that held up Aidan's undershorts. He slipped a finger beneath the edge and looked up at Aidan for permission.

Aidan understood at that point that Dean had other plans for him. He didn't quite nod or shake his head, but he rolled fully onto his back and kept his eyes on Dean. "Do you think," whispered he, "we could close the curtains?" He had never been fond of people looking in, although his common sense told him that the bright sun would reflect on the windows rather than show anyone what they were doing. None of the other rooms could look into the suite, at any rate, but Aidan wanted this moment not to be spoiled by his worry about that.

"If you want." Dean's eyes went to the balcony and its tantalizing view of the sky. "We're on the second floor. Doubt we'll have any creepers staring in at us." But one look told him that Aidan was quite serious. "All right then." He got up and turned on the lamp next to the bed. "The better to see you with, my dear," he whispered dramatically, then slid the floor-length curtain at the sliding glass door shut.

He returned to the bed, slowly, taking in the view of Aidan, laid out against the white comforter. His skin, unlike Dean's, had taken on a rosy tan over the past nine days. Aidan was flushed and breathtakingly beautiful.

"How did I not see it?' Dean asked. "How did I not see all along how beautiful you are?"

Aidan might not feel always beautiful, with the angry scar that stretched on his chest, but under Dean's scrutiny he did. It was perhaps the same question that he was wondering right now. Dean was a package of talent and lean muscle, of dimpled smiles and dignity. You wouldn't think him anything special, until you got to know him. And Aidan hadn't made an effort to get to know him earlier.

He was glad that he had now.

"Are you going to stand there and watch me?" he asked. "Because if you are..." His hand moved to the band of his own underwear.

Dean let out an appreciative groan at the sight. "I'd love to watch," he told Aidan, voice hoarse with lust. "But I'd rather participate." His tongue darted out to lick his lips, an unconscious gesture. He sat down hip to hip with Aidan, and slowly slid the man's underwear down, baring only an inch of flesh or so at a time, until the cloth rested on Aidan's thighs.

"You look good enough to eat," Dean told Aidan, gaze nearly predatory.

How could Dean look like that and still need to be on the receiving end? It was unfair; it was the kind of look that had Aidan weak in the knees and hard where it mattered. "I'm not stopping you," he said, very much hot and bothered while he pushed his underwear all the way off. "What do you want to do?"

"I want," Dean ran a feather-light finger up the inside of Aidan's thigh, "you, in my mouth. I want to taste you, Aidan," he caressed Aidan's thigh. "I want you ready to cum. Dying for it. And then..." he grinned impishly. "Well, then you wait a bit while I taste you some more."

Aidan let his head fall back with a groan just at the thought. "If you do that to me, I swear, I'll give you anything you want." His hips were twitching, his desire barely contained. "Please, don't keep me waiting."

"I'm not doing it to _get_ anything," Dean leaned over and intercepted a drop of pre-cum that was running down the side of Aidan's dick. He put the finger in his own mouth, sucking off the liquid, "Except maybe a taste." With that, he leaned over, engulfing half of Aidan's cock with his mouth.

And Aidan was about to tell that it wasn't why he had offered, when his words got stuck in his throat. It was a peculiar sensation, to have lust and love warring and for them both to be wanted.

It was, he quickly found out, in Dean's blood to be a tease. That, or Dean continued to make Aidan want more than he got. The feel of Dean's wet mouth was breathtakingly erotic, but only came halfway, and that wasn't nearly enough. Aidan twisted and moved under him. He jutted his hips up until they were held down. With no control over the situation, he instead moved a hand down to cradle the side of Dean's face. "More..."

Dean muttered something that sounded like an agreement around the flesh in his mouth. Slowly, he eased his head lower, thumbs making slow circles on Aidan's hips, until Dean's nose was buried in a thick, dark thatch of pubic hair that smelled of soap and tanning lotion. Dean swallowed once, suppressing a smile at the groan it elicited from Aidan. Slowly, he drew back and then allowed Aidan's dick to enter his throat again.

If Aidan had expected Dean to be vanilla, he took that back now. His body was trembling every time Dean pushed his nose into his hair. He was afraid he was going to choke him if he thrusted up, messing up the moment as a result, but his self-control was gone. Insistently, his hand tugged on Dean's ear. Aidan was bordering on a powerful orgasm—if only Dean would let him have it.

Dean pulled off with a wet sound. "You're a mouthful, aren't you?" he stated the obvious, wrapping his hand solidly around the base of Aidan's cock. "I'm not sure how long I can go on like that, but I plan to finish you off." He bent back to the task, licking, sucking and laving Aidan's cock with attention. The scent of Aidan's arousal was strong in the air. Dean knew it was only a matter of time.

"I'm a—?" Aidan started, but he did not get to finish that sentence. His breath was stuck in his throat, and if his body would have allowed it, he would have tossed and turned, arching his back up. His body didn't, and trying not to put a strain on his chest while almost coming was a restraint that was torturous. Aidan gasped and clutched at the sheets. "Dean," he panted. "Dean, oh god, Dean—"

He came with a strangled cry.

Dean kept his mouth on Aidan despite the man's contortions during his orgasm. He rubbed his hip soothingly, kissing the warm skin as Aidan's breath evened out. Then he pulled the tan blanket at the foot of the bed up over them both. Propped up on one elbow, he smiled sleepily down at Aidan, not speaking.

Aidan was still on his rush, and barely coming down. His eyes were wide, his breathing erratic, and every now and then came a chuckle, like he couldn't believe it. "Hold on," he breathed. "Hold on, I—"

He didn't finish that sentence, although he did pull Dean down for a heated kiss. Aidan moaned, his legs wrapping around Dean's form. "I am so lucky to have you," said he. "Give me a moment. I am so going to return the favor."

Dean lay his head down next to Aidan's on the pillow. "I didn't do it so you'd reciprocate," he said. "You've been so patient with me over the past five months. I know my moods have been all over the map. I've made crazy choices and split second decisions. But you came along for the ride. Not many people would have done that. I just want you to know that I appreciate you, Aidan."

"What if I want to?" Aidan asked. Dean didn't have the monopoly on what he had just described—Aidan had snatched away Dean's husband's heart and house, and Dean had had every right to shove him away, except he hadn't. "If I told you that every time I see you, I wish I could show you..." Rolling onto his side, he kept one leg over Dean's waist, chewing the side of his thumb while he watched him. "I'm not doing this to reciprocate. Although," he added, "I should warn you, if you do these things to me, I'll want to be doing something in return."

"Please," Dean reached for the hand Aidan was chewing on, "please, Aidan." He held the hand between both of his. "Expectations... they're scary. I expected Richard and me to grow old and die together. So, from you, I'm not _expecting_ anything. I just want us to live a day at a time, in the moment. All right?" He brought the hand to his mouth, kissing each knuckle tenderly. "One day a time."

The gesture made Aidan smile. "If you say it like that, I'll want to touch you even more. Today could be the last chance," he raised his brow, clearly without intentions of leaving Dean but with a growing interest in seizing the day. "If you let me."

"Of course I'll let you." Dean's blue eyes shone, tilting his head. "I'll let you have me—any way you like. I've wanted you since... well, since that first meal we had with your parents. When I saw how you treated them, and how they made you smile. When I saw that smile, I wanted to make you smile that way too."

"That long?" Aidan stared at him in surprise. Dean had wanted him that long? "But I was only just out of the hospital. I was terrible to you."

"I didn't say I necessarily liked you. Not quite," Dean smiled ruefully. "But I saw that smile, and your eyes. The way you throw back your head and laugh when something's really funny. And the way you hug your mom every time you see her. Even if she only left the room an hour ago. I wanted you, then. If only for that." He chuckled. "Or shit, maybe I wanted to _be_ you. I'm not sure."

"Hold that first thought when we visit them," replied Aidan, equally amused as genuinely touched. His strength had returned to him, or as much as he had these days, and in a fluent motion he pushed Dean onto his back only to roll on top of him.

"Mmm." Dean savored the weight and the pressure against him. He couldn't put into words how safe it made him feel. "You're so warm all the time—like a furnace. I'm glad I chose you to be Ra. No one else could be. Golden flecks in your ebony eyes... all the colors of the sunset in the depths of your hair..."

Aidan raised a brow at the poetic praise. Nobody generally told him things like that. "About to undress the chosen mortal under me and kiss him wherever he wants," he smiled, tugging at the hem of his lover's underwear.

"Your lips would sear my flesh in their wake if you were Ra," Dean told him, lifting his hips as Aidan' slid down his boxers. "It would be more than hot, I'm guessing."

"Then who is the god of the moon?" asked Aidan as he deposited the article on the floor and took an appreciative look of Dean. "He would be able to handle it." His hand traced a line down Dean's chest, into small blond curls and past his arousal to fondle that which lay beneath.

"Ah, that would be Khonsu, the traveler," Dean relaxed under Aidan's touched, caressing Aidan's hair with his right hand. "So named because every night he travels across the sky. Yeah, I think Khonsu could handle it."

"Khonsu," Aidan repeated. Then he leaned down, kept Dean's arousal out of the way, and lay his mouth on Dean's balls. His tongue probed delicately, figuring out what harnessed little effect, and what had the man under him in shambles. He ventured on before parting his lips and sucking carefully on one. To be able to do this was a heady experience.

The hand that held Dean's cock pressed against his lower abdomen moved once or twice, and Aidan nipped once at the base, but it was not nearly enough.

Aidan wasn't Ra, yet the heat of his mouth burned like fire. Dean lay his head back and memorized each sensation, each sound Aidan made; the smell of him. He was amenable to taking it slow and building up to actual penetrative sex. He knew there was still some talking to be done and concessions to be made in that department. And that was all right.

For now, Aidan wanted him. Aidan _loved_ him. And he wanted to spend his precious time with Dean. That was the biggest miracle of all. When he came, he cried out Aidan's name and held him long after.

\- - - - - 

That night they shared a quiet dinner together at an intimate cafe on the wharf. The moon was huge and luminous. After the meal, Dean finally coaxed Aidan into the hot tub, where they laughed and talked about the future and did more than a bit of kissing.

By midnight, the air was cool. They both shivered getting back into their clothing. Aidan gave Dean a kiss and retreated to his room as promised. Dean took up the beautiful glass urn containing Richard's ashes and walked down to the beach. He knew Aidan was watching from his balcony.

Dean sat down in the sand just above where the water was kissing it. He made a divot for the urn next to him. "What a strange vacation this would have been if you were still alive," he spoke to the urn, as if Richard were there, listening. “Aidan and I probably would have ruined it for you.”

 _Maybe you two would have become friends, despite yourselves,_ Richard's voice answered.

"Yes, I think we would have."

Waves caressed the shore and hissed on contact.

"For a while there, I thought I might die, after you did," Dean told him. "You were my everything."

 _You're stronger than you think,_ answered his dead husband. _And there are so many songs inside you yet to be sung._

"With Aidan."

 _Or without Aidan._ Your _songs, Dean. I'll always be with you, you know that._

"I'm still scared," Dean began to sob. "I'm more scared than I've ever been in my life."

 _The only thing certain is that death is coming for us all,_ said Richard. _Make sure you live a lot before you die, Dean. Promise me that you will._

Dean looked up at the moon—the traveler—and he promised.


	27. Khonsu and Ra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One year later, Dean opens the bed and breakfast up for a test run for he and Aidan's dearest friends. But there's still one more surprise waiting for Aidan in the wings.

**ONE YEAR LATER**

A dense blanket of rainclouds obscured the sky and reminded Aidan that this was still England. He scowled at the prospect of getting out the car and having to face the downpour. According to his navigation, it was eight more minutes until he reached his destination. Nearly there.

It was the twenty-fifth of May. He had finished filming his second season roughly three hours ago. Seven minutes from now, he would officially be on his break.

Six minutes.

The small roads and the rain took up his attention then, which led Aidan to only recognize the place when a friendly female voice instructed him to turn around.

The rain ceased to matter. Aidan shut off the car. He fetched his luggage, ignored the need for an umbrella or a coat, and ran for the door.

A waft of warm, sweet-smelling air hit him full in the face when he entered the employee entrance of Seaside Rendezvous. Aidan found Dean in the kitchen of the inn, stirring something in a big metal bowl. Music blaring from the CD player on the counter—Glenn Miller—masked Aidan's approach.

Dean opened the oven, and the heavenly scent of pastry quadrupled. He turned around, a tin of muffins in his mitted hands. His eyes met Aidan's and he set the tin aside, hurriedly pulling off the blue oven mitts and running into his embrace.

"Hi," Dean smiled, kissing him as if they'd been parted for an age. "God, you're waterlogged!" He wiped a trickle of water from Aidan’s cheek.

Aidan smiled brilliantly at once, and gladly pressed his soggy frame against his boyfriend's. "It's raining outside. Real hard, too. God, I missed you."

Aidan toed off his shoes, looked around for guests and, on concluding that there weren't any yet, pushed off his drenched jeans as well. Aidan stole a longer kiss, weeks overdue. "Tour of the place? I can't wait to see what you’ve done already."

"Give me two minutes to put in some muffins." Dean pulled out of Aidan’s arms reluctantly. He made short work of pouring a beige batter—banana walnut, he explained—into a twelve-hole muffin tin. Sliding the pan into the oven, he punched some numbers and turned to Aidan.

"Things haven't changed too much, honestly," he told Aidan, taking his hand. "I did change the name. Jimmy made the new signs and I painted them. I'll show them to you when it stops raining."

The dining and lounging areas were much the same, the rustic wooden furniture intact. Dean had purchased some new cushions in navy blue and beige, and repainted the wainscoting a vibrant coral color. It gave both rooms warmth they hadn't had before.

Dean had left the bedroom furniture the same, but he had changed the linens. Each room had a theme: starfish and shells, anchors, pelicans and lighthouses. The bathrooms each had a new coat of paint and were refurnished with rowboat shelving and porthole mirrors. The nautical influences were effective, without being over the top.

Upstairs—where Dean and Aidan would sleep—was still breezy and open with a king size bed in one corner and a sofa, table and television in another. Dean's laptop sat on a small table by the window and the final corner held an easel where Dean had been working.

"I put an awning up over the patio out front along the wharf," Dean told him, "and one over our private balcony. Both are retractable. I wanted to do some landscaping, but for now the pebbles and driftwood are going to have to suffice." He turned to Aidan, hugging him. "I'm looking forward to having you sleep here with me."

"First night," Aidan nodded, falling down onto the bed, wearing little more than a t-shirt, and tugging the sheets over him for warmth. "I've got ten days before they expect me back in London to go over _Coventry_ one last time," he said. "God, this place smells really good when you're cooking. Come here for a minute."

"Tell me about it!" Dean grinned. "I think I've gained five pounds in the past two weeks just making and sampling different breakfast sweets." He toed off his sneakers and crawled in bed next to Aidan, pushing a damp curl from his boyfriend's forehead, kissing the spot where the wet lock had lain.

"I wasn't aware you could get any sweeter," smiled Aidan. He hadn't seen Dean in weeks, and the last time had been a short few hours of privacy. To have ten days was a luxury he intended to make full use of. In a minute. For now, Aidan just wanted to look at Dean and be in love.

"I have a surprise for you." Dean leaned over and kissed Aidan's lips softly. "This weekend, as a test run, all the guests are going to be our friends."

"For real?" Aidan gaped at him, more than a little excited about that. He had been consumed by the shooting for months, with no time to catch up with people because he had needed to spend it on exercise or sleep. "Everyone? They're all coming here?" A gaggle of Londoners in a B&B in the south of Cornwall... Oh, the town would be shaken up. "That's wonderful! Who did you invite?"

"Adam and Jimmy," Dean punctuated this with a kiss to Aidan's chin, "and Graham and Gwen," another kiss, "and Martin and Benedict," the third kiss found Aidan's mouth. "The last couple is a surprise."

The kiss distracted both of them for a while—most of all when Aidan's barely dressed form rolled on top of Dean and the conversation was forgotten in favor of more important things. A year in, they were as in love as they had been in the beginning. Aidan dared admit it was more so because his body had stopped obstructing him somewhere around October. "I don't suppose I get to coax it from you?" he wondered.

"You'll find out soon enough," Dean smiled up at him. He loved that Aidan's role required him to wear his dark hair longer than ever. It was such a turn-on. "God, you're gorgeous," he remarked. "So gorgeous it almost hurts to look at you."

Aidan beamed above him. "Yeah? Don't stop looking, love. Are we alone?" He was already pulling up his shirt at the hem.

"For now," Dean told him. "But if you're going to get naked, I'm going to have to go get those muffins out of the oven first. I'll totally lose track of time otherwise and burn the place down."

His boyfriend rolled off of him with another kiss. "Quickly then, handsome," he smiled. "We've got things to catch up on. Ten days... God, you’ve spoiled me, haven't you? I wanted to come here every night after shooting." He continued to pull up his shirt with a teasing lilt to his lips. "Hurry up, or I'll be naked before you're back."

Dean leaned over and whispered in his ear, "I'm counting on it."

\- - - - 

"Oy!" Adam called out over the fracas of voices at the table, "Can someone _please_ pass those heavenly popovers ‘round this way?"

"And the butter!" Jimmy added.

Benedict, who was taking his time meticulously slathering one side of a halved roll, looked up, caught. "It's hard not to want to spend quality time with them, isn't it?" he blushed and shrugged guiltily, handing the butter dish over to Martin, who passed it along.

"Dean, you've outdone yourself," Graham agreed with the consensus, patting his stomach.

Dean had made a pot roast with root vegetables for their first night at the inn. 

"Thank you," Dean smiled around at them, eyes resting nervously on the two empty chairs. "I'm so glad you all could make it."

Aidan too glanced at the empty spots when he caught Dean watching them. Dean didn't look dejected, which meant that whoever the surprise people were, they could still be coming. There was food on the table—Dean had gotten better at cooking over the last year, and Aidan was as always a willing guinea pig—and laughter joined into a merry noise.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," grinned Jimmy. "Call me any time for good food and this company. So this is where you'll be staying all summer?"

"Only during the season," said Aidan. He gave Dean a fond look. "You're welcome any day."

Dean took a bite of the roast with a tiny smidgen of onion and potato and it literally melted in his mouth. His new iron roaster was to be applauded. He smiled at the delicate mix of saffron and mushroom in the gravy, groaning in pleasure at the taste.

The rain had subsided outside and the first seasonal visitors to St. Ives could be seen making their way along the wooden wharf outside. The air smelled clean and fresh.

A knock came at the back door, cutting off an observation Martin was making about the general pastiness of the tourists—himself included.

"Why don't you go see who's at the door?" Dean suggested to Aidan, squeezing his thigh.

Aidan had thought the surprise part to be not knowing who they were waiting for, before, but after Dean asked him that, Aidan begun to suspect that the surprise guests were very pointedly for him. He got up, pecked Dean on his cheek, and offered the others a comically puzzled expression, all before heading for the door.

"So, who are they?" Graham couldn't help his curiosity when Aidan was out the dining room. "Who did you invite?"

"Hello, my boy!" Danny Turner smiled at his son from the doorstep, a bag in each hand.

"Oh, your _hair!_ " Angela exclaimed, cupping Aidan's cheeks with both hands. "It's gotten so long."

"Mum!" Aidan exclaimed. "Dad! What are you—?" His thoughts went out to Dean. "Oh! Hi, _hi_ , come in. Oh, if you told me, I would have picked you up. Did you come by train?" He was smiling from ear to ear. "You look good. Dean made dinner. Everyone is already here. Come in, come in. I'll introduce you and you can eat."

He took their coats and put the suitcases away. Aidan would bring them up to the empty room later. He walked his parents into the dining room, and cleared his throat. A quick glance was for Dean, filled with gratitude, before Aidan did the rounds.

Angela and Danny hit it off with Gwen and Graham McTavish right away. By the time Dean brought out the strawberry shortcake for dessert, the two couples were already planning a long weekend in the Scottish Highlands.

Next to Dean, Aidan couldn't stop smiling. Dean had missed him so much that he could barely stand to be away from Aidan's side long enough to go make coffee. As he waited for it to percolate, his left hand strayed into the pocket of his jeans and found the ring he planned on giving to Aidan later that evening. 

Dean chuckled. If someone had told him eighteen months earlier that he’d be standing in the kitchen of his very own bed and breakfast, a ring in his pocket with which he planned to propose marriage to Aidan Turner, he would have died laughing. And yet, here he was. And how he felt about Aidan was nothing to laugh at.

When he heard footsteps approaching him from behind, he was certain it was Aidan and turned around to kiss him.

Martin scraped his throat. 

Dean blushed. "I almost tackled you," he confessed.

"Wouldn't that have been awkward?" his friend smiled with his hands in his pockets. "You've got a nice place here. When I heard you were going to buy a house in the South, I thought you were joking at first, but here it is. It's lovely." He gestured over to the coffee machine. "Can I help you with anything?"

"I was just going to take the coffee in to the table, along with some sweetener and cream," Dean told him. "My trial run," he smiled. "If every morning with my guests goes as well as meals with you lot... I think life's going to be pretty grand. So, you and Ben?"

"Me and Ben?" Martin pretended not to understand the question, though he smiled. "I was going to ask, you and Aidan? Apart from," he gestured faintly, "the obvious displays of affection. You're spending half your days in Cornwall from now on. How's he taking it?"

"He's doing what he loves," Dean shrugged. "And so am I. It makes our time together more precious. I love it here. He loves it on set. Plus, he's writing, and I'm painting. Life's good, Martin. It really, really is."

Martin hopped onto one of the bar stools. "You've changed so much. Forgive me for saying it, but I can't help think that if Richard were here, he would have liked it. Sorry. If you want to go back to the others, it's fine. I just came here to catch up with you, and to ask you something personal." He coughed. "Is—well, you see, I'd like to pay a visit to where Richard's ashes were scattered. It's been over a year, and I really want to. I'm here now, so," he trailed off. "Is that too personal a thing to ask?"

"Oh, of course not," Dean told him. "I can take you to the spot, but the ashes went into the water." Dean smiled fondly. "I like to think that parts of Richard made their way to the Bahamas, and Greenland, and the Ivory Coast—and other places we talked about going but never quite made it to." He picked a crust off the edge of a leftover roll, and popped it into his mouth. "We can go down there when the sand dries. There's nothing worse than wet sand," he chuckled.

Martin inclined his head. "Of course, of course. Thanks. I wasn't sure if I could ask you, and I didn't want to do it in front of the others, but I guess I need a place to go to honor his memory, not just a corner in the library, you see." He gestured to the coffee. "Can I carry something for you?"

"How about those?" Dean nodded to the pitcher of cream and the caddy of sweeteners and cinnamon. Dean hefted two carafes. "I'm glad you're here," he told Martin for the fifteenth time. "And I like Ben a lot. I really do."

Martin picked the items up and followed Dean back to the others, where Adam and Jimmy were in an animated discussion with Aidan and Benedict, and the others were mostly following it in amusement. "That makes two of us," he whispered between him and Dean. "Go to your prince. He looks like he's been waiting."

Dean passed the coffee around in both directions, then sat down next to Aidan. 

_My prince,_ he thought to himself, warmth spreading through him. Aidan slid his hand into Dean's easily when the blond sat down. 

On the wall, across from the fireplace, hung _Khonsu and Ra._ Dean had broken up his Egyptian series with a depiction of two gods on one painting. It was the original; once it was finished, Dean hadn't been able to part with it. It took some fancy posturing on his part, but considering the healthy sum _Osiris_ had netted her, his agent could hardly say no. Prints would be made, but Dean would always have the original.

The painting depicted Khonsu, the traveler, god of the moon, and Ra, god of the sun. They stood back to back, but appeared to have just passed one another, as Khonsu's hand reached back behind him to brush over Ra's. The space between them was filled with a brilliant sunrise... or sunset, depending on which critic was writing the review. Ra was looking up and ahead into the bright blue sky, eyes radiant with the promise of a new day. Khonsu—who had Dean's face—was cloaked in swirling stars and looking down, smiling with satisfaction, as if those few seconds each twelve hours when they came together were the entire reason for his being.

\- - - - - 

_Once upon a time,_ Martin thought to himself later that evening, as the light of the traveler spread across the sea before him, _there were two princes who didn't like one another very much. Tragedy brought them together. Tragedy, and a miracle. And they fell in love and lived happily ever after._

The ever after, of course, was another story for another time.

**THE END**

_Khonsu and Ra,_ by BlueMonkey

[Click here for larger version.](http://redrosecitychorus.org/docs/khonsura.jpg)   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear friends: Thank you all for your continued support of our work. We know we constantly test you and play with your emotions. We're sorry about that--mostly. We're very grateful you came along for the ride on this fairy tale that got very, very out of hand. Please be patient as we try to zero in on what exactly our next collaborative work will be. As always, we welcome your suggestions.
> 
> Blue and Thorny

**Author's Note:**

> Annnnnnnd, we're off on another jaunt. Thanks for coming along for the ride. Don't let the warnings scare you. We've only gone through two boxes of Kleenex so far... each.


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